Honor Bound

"Perhaps you could have them made in Buenos Aires. It is a major city; there are military tailors, I'm sure. And God knows, they have woolen material. We buy it from them by the shipload. I wouldn't be at all surprised if someone were making woolens dyed to Luftwaffe specifications there."

"Dress-uniform specifications?" Peter asked. It struck him as unlikely.

"If I were a Luftwaffe procurement officer,” Generalmajor von Wachtstein said, "I think I would make sure that when unser grosse Hermann wanted yet another dress uniform, the material would be available." Unser grosse Hermann —Our Big Hermann—was Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering, Commander of the Luftwaffe, and a man who was more than generously large.

Peter chuckled.

"Buttons and insignia might be a problem," Generalmajor von Wachtstein went on, in his usual thorough manner. "Make sure you take that sort of thing with you. Including major's insignia."

"Jawohl, Poppa."

"Don't mock me, Peter, please. These details are important. The last thing we want is to have you sent back here because the military attach? decides you are unsuitable for the assignment."

"Sorry," Peter said, genuinely contrite. "I'm sure there will be tailors. Oberst Per?n painted a fascinating picture of Buenos Aires for me."

"Who?"

"ArgentineOberst Juan Domingo Per?n . He's attached to their embassy over here studying our welfare programs. He's a friend of the family of the Duarte fellow. I met him at the Foreign Ministry, and I've had dinner with him. He called me up."

Generalmajor von Wachtstein nodded, then dismissed the Argentine officer as unimportant.

"Peter, we have to talk about money," he said.

"A delicate subject, Poppa. One the son is glad the father brought up first. From what I'm told, Buenos Aires is a very expensive place to live. It was put to me that I would have difficulty making ends meet, and that it was hoped I could somehow augment my pay."

"That's not what I'm talking about," his father said. "But tell me about it. Would that be permitted?"

"I think encouraged," Peter said.

"Did you have the feeling there would be a limit on how much money you could take to Argentina?"

"I had the feeling that the more you'd be willing to give me, the better they would like it."

"Pay attention to me," the Graf said sharply.

"Sir?" Peter responded, surprised at his father's tone, and baffled by his question.

"There is money, Peter. A substantial amount here, most of it in English pounds and Swiss francs, and an even more substantial amount in Switzerland, in a bank. Actually, in two banks."

Peter was now genuinely surprised. Simple possession of currency of the Allied powers or neutral countries was a serious offense. Maintaining bank accounts out of Germany was even more stringently forbidden.

"This war will pass," the Graf said, now sure that he had his son's attention. "This government will pass. We, you and I, will pass. What is important is that the family must not die, or that we, the family, don't lose our lands. We have been on these lands for more than five hundred years. My duty—our duty—is to see that we do not lose them. If we lose the war, and I agree we cannot win it, we will lose our lands ... unless there is money. Not German money, which will be devalued and useless, but the currency of the victors, or a neutral power. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, Sir."

"First, the money in Switzerland. The accounts there are numbered. I am going to give you the numbers. You must memorize the numbers. When you are settled in Argentina, I want you to have the money transferred there from Switzerland, secretly, and put somewhere safe, where we will have access to it after the war."

"How will I do that?"

"Von Lutzenberger will probably be able to help, but we can't bank on that."

"Ambassador von Lutzenberger?" Peter asked. Someone had given him the name of the German Ambassador to Argentina during the last couple of days, but he hadn't expected to hear it from his father.

"He's a friend," his father said. "But you would do well to consider him your last reserve, Peter, not to be used until you are sure you can't deal with a situation by yourself, without help."

"But he knows about your money?"

His father nodded, then corrected him. “Not my money, Peter. Von Wachtstein money. Money that has come down to us from our family, with the expectation that it will be used wisely and for the family."

Peter nodded, accepting the correction.

"A good man. We were at Marburg together. And he has as much to risk as we do. But keep in mind, Peter, that a situation may come where he will have to make a sacrifice for the common good, and you might be that sacrifice."

"How is it you never told me about any of this?"

"Because your possession of the knowledge would place you in jeopardy. If they found out you knew about it, you would be as culpable as I am. Your Knight's Cross notwithstanding, you would wind up in a concentration camp."

Peter blurted what came into his mind: "But what if you had died? What would have happened to the money then?"

"Dieter von Haas and I have an arrangement. If anything happened to me, he would have told you. If anything happens to him, I will inform Frau von Haas of the similar arrangements he has made."

Peter looked at his father for a long moment.

"I'm not good at memorizing numbers," he said. "I never have been."

“Then write the numbers down, make them look like telephone numbers or something. And then, to be sure, construct a simple code," the Graf von Wachtstein said, a touch of impatience in his voice. "One or two digits up from the actual numbers. Something like that."

"Yes," Peter said simply.

"About the cash here," the Graf went on. "Do you think you will be searched when you leave the country?"

Peter thought about that for a moment.

"No," he said. "The body will be accompanied by an honor guard as far as the Spanish border. I don't think anyone will search me. And the moment I cross the border, I will have diplomatic status."

He looked at his father.

When I leave here,he thought with a sudden chilled certainty, I will never see him again.

"I think it would be best if you took the money with you when you return to Berlin tomorrow. They may solve the problem of sheet lead for the casket, and you might not be able to come back here. And I wouldn't want to be seen passing anything to you at the train station. Do you have someplace safe to keep it? Where are you staying in Berlin?"

"With a friend, in Zehlendorf."

"Better than a hotel," the Graf said. "Well, I'll write the numbers down for you, and while you're copying them into a code, I'll get the money. And then we'll see about finding something to eat."

"You know what I would like for supper, Poppa?" Peter said. "I'd like to go into the gasthaus in the village and have sausage and potatoes and beer."

Generalmajor Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein looked at his son. His left eyebrow rose.

"Yes, Peter, I think I would too," he said after a moment.

Chapter Five

[ONE]

The Vieux Carre

New Orleans, Louisiana

1955 1 November 1942

It was still raining when the 1938 Durham-bodied Cadillac pulled to the curb across the street from the Monteleone Hotel in the Vieux Carre. Clete wiped his hand on the window to clear the condensation.

"There he is. He even looks like the picture Graham showed me," Clete said.

He started to open the door. His grandfather stopped him. He had a microphone in his hand.

"Samuel, the gentleman we are meeting is standing to the left of the..."

Clete took the microphone from him.

"Samuel, pull up in front of the hotel. Don't get out of the car. I'll call to him."

"Have it your way," the old man said, then leaned across Clete to look out the window he had cleared. "He doesn't look like a Jew."

"What does a Jew look like?"

"Not like that," the old man said.

Samuel found a place in the flow of traffic and drove the thirty yards to the marquee of the Monteleone. Clete opened the door and called to Ettinger. Ettinger was visibly surprised to see the car, but after a moment came quickly across the sidewalk.

"We're only going around the comer, but why get wet?" Clete said, offering his hand. "David, I'm glad to meet you." Then he turned to the old man. "Grandfather, may I present Mr. David Ettinger? David, this is my grandfather, Mr. Cletus Marcus Howell."

"How do you do?" the old man said.

"How do you do?" Ettinger said, offering his hand.

With a just-perceptible hesitation, the old man took it. Briefly.

Then he picked up the microphone again. "Amaud's, Samuel," he ordered. "After you have found a place to park the car, go into the kitchen and tell them I would be obliged if they gave you something to eat."

Clete saw Ettinger's eyebrow rise, and smiled at him.

A waiter greeted them at the door to Arnaud's and led them through the crowded main dining area to a small private dining room. The waiter pulled aside the curtain on the doorway and bowed them in.

The table had been set. There was an impressive array of crystal, silver, and starched napkins. A menu was at each place.

"I took the liberty, Mr. Howell," the waiter said, removing the cover from a plate in the center of the table, "to have a few hors d'oeuvres prepared for you, while you decide."

“The last time you did that,” the old man said, “the remoulade sauce was disgraceful."

"Indeed it was. The saucier was shot at dawn the next morning. We showed him no mercy, although he pleaded he was the sole support of his old mother. Can I bring you something from the bar?"

Clete saw Ettinger smiling; the smile vanished when Ettinger noticed the old man turning toward him.

"Mr. Ettinger?" the old man asked.

"Not for me, thank you, Sir. I wouldn't want to anesthetize my tongue before eating in a place like this."

The old man flashed Clete a triumphant smile.

"Then may I suggest we have a quick look at the menu to see whether fish, fowl, or good red meat?"

"May I ask that you order for me?" Ettinger said.

"I would be happy to translate the menu for you," the old man said. "They do it in French only to humiliate their patrons."

"I speak French, if your ordering for me would be an imposition," Ettinger said.

"No imposition at all," the old man said. "What would you recommend tonight, Harold?"

"I hesitate to recommend anything. You have been coming in here for thirty years, and I have yet to bring you anything that met your approval."

"In that case, we will try to wash these hors d'oeuvres down with a bottle of Moet, the '39, if there's any left. And you will then go to the kitchen and tell the chef that we are hungry enough to eat anything that hasn't fallen on the floor."

"There was some shrimp-and-oyster bisque a while back that didn't smell too badly."

"We place ourselves in your somewhat less than knowledgeable hands," the old man said.

"I am overwhelmed," the waiter said. "It is, in any case, good to see you, Mr. Frade. Didn't I hear you were in the Marines?"

"It's good to see you too. I was in the Marines. I was just discharged."

"Then welcome home."

"Thank you."

The waiter left.

The old man turned to Ettinger. "For reasons I can't imagine, that man fancies himself the best waiter here; and by inference, the best in New Orleans."

"It's probably his table-side manner," Ettinger said.

The old man actually chuckled.

"The problem with Argentina, Mr. Ettinger," Cletus Marcus Howell proclaimed, "is that it is a theocracy."

He was leaning back in his chair, cradling a brandy snifter in his hand. The dinner had gone well. The food, as Clete knew it would be, had been superb.

The shrimp-and-oyster bisque was followed by Filet de Boeuf a la Venison, a dish Ettinger had never previously encountered. When he admitted this, he thus offered the oid man the opportunity to display his culinary knowledge as to its preparation.

Ettinger seemed not only genuinely interested, but also showed himself to be quite familiar with the subtleties of haute cuisine. He mentioned to the old man, for instance, that the Moroccans made a similar dish; they substituted mutton for the beef, however, while marinating it and otherwise cooking it like venison.

He also showed a genuine and knowledgeable enthusiasm for the wine. By the time the brandy was served, the old man was almost beaming. And Clete was amusing himself with what was surely his grandfather's current opinion of Staff Sergeant Ettinger: Jew or not, that fellow is a gentleman.

He was even daring to hope that the old man was in such a good mood he would not mention his daughter. Clete now realized, resignedly, that that was not to be.

"A theocracy, Sir?" Ettinger asked.

"A government which is controlled by a religion," the old man explained.

"Such as Spain," Ettinger said.

"Precisely. And, as in Spain, that religion is Roman Catholicism," the old man said. "Now, don't misunderstand me. There is not a prejudiced bone in my body, and I have tried to pass my tolerance for other people's religious convictions on to my son, and especially my grandson. As a matter of fact, I have a number of Roman Catholic friends, including, to put a point on it, the Archbishop of New Orleans. Weather permitting, for twenty-odd years, every other Thursday, I took his money at the Metairie Country Club."

"You are speaking of theocracy," Ettinger said.

"Indeed. You are, I understand, Spanish?"

"I am now an American citizen," Ettinger said carefully. "I formerly held German citizenship. I am of Spanish heritage."

"You know Spain?"

"I lived there."

"Then you will feel right at home in Argentina. The most outrageous things are done there in the name of Christianity, which of course there means Roman Catholicism."

"I see."

"It doesn't happen here," the old man said. "Archbishop Noonan is as fine a gentleman as they come. But, of course, that is because our Constitution wisely forbids a state religion."

"I understand"

"The Roman Catholic theocracy in Argentina murdered my daughter, Cletus's mother," the old man said.

"Grandfather, do we have to get into this?"

"I think I should," the old man said.

"You are embarrassing our guest," Clete said.

"I don't see why he should be embarrassed. He's a Jew, as I understand it. To him this is a neutral matter. Why should he be embarrassed if I tell him what he will find when you reach Argentina?" He sat up and leaned across the table. "Am I embarrassing you, Mr. Ettinger?"

"No, Sir."

"My daughter married an Argentinean, Mr. Ettinger. Cletus's father is an Argentinean. Did you know that?"

"Colonel Graham mentioned something about Lieutenant Frade having been born there, Sir."

"Jorge Guillermo Frade is his name," the old man said. He pronounced it in Spanish—Horgay Goool-yermo Frah-day—each syllable reflecting his loathing. "Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day is, among other things, a cattleman."

"Is that so?" Ettinger asked.

"I really wish you would stop this, Grandfather," Clete said.

"Mr. Ettinger and the other fellow who's going with you," the old man said, "the Italian, have a right to know this story, Cletus. Please don't interrupt me again."

Clete sensed Ettinger's eyes on him, and looked at him. The eyes seemed to say, I understand. Let him finish. There's no way he can be stopped. Clete saw also in Ettinger's eyes both sympathy for him, and pity for the old man.

"As I was saying, Mr. Ettinger," the old man went on. "Horgay Goool-yermo Frah-day is a cattleman. My son James Fitzhugh Howell, Cletus's uncle, was a cattleman. When Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day heaved onto the scene, he was courting the lady who later became Mrs. Howell. Her family are cattlemen. Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day came to this country to do business with my daughter-in-law's father. She wasn't yet then my daughter-in-law, but I presume you're following me?"

"Yes, Sir."

"My son was at the Williamson ranch—my daughter-in-law's maiden name was Williamson—when Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day came there to buy some breeding stock from Mr. Williamson. Handsome fella, charming. I'll give him that, Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day is handsome and charming. Spoke fluent English, with just, enough of an accent to make the ladies flush. Like Charles Boyer, if you take my meaning."

" 'Come wiss me to zee Casbah,' " Ettinger replied, in a very creditable mimicry of one of the actor's most famous lines.

"Exactly, exactly!" the old man said, and then went on. "And they were about the same age, so my son asked Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day to come to New Orleans, to see the city. He came, and I opened my house to him. And I was the one, may God forgive me, who introduced him to my daughter. She wasn't even through college, had a year to go at Rice. And Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day just swept that child off her feet.

"When he came to me and asked for her hand, I told him she was too young, and that I could not in good conscience offer my blessing until she'd finished her education."

"I understand your position," Ettinger said. "Any father would feel that way."

"My wife, may she rest in peace, had passed on when my daughter was fourteen. They called it 'consumption' then; now they call it 'tuberculosis.' "

"So you were both father and mother to your children," Ettinger said.

"You could say that, Mr. Ettinger, yes," the old man went on. "And so did Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day understand my position. Or so he said. So he went back to Argentina, and I thought— I'venever believed that absence makes^ the heart grow fonder. And I concluded that would be the end of it. Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day would find some suitable young woman down mere, and my daughter would find some suitable suitor here.

"Well, I'm an oilman, Mr. Ettinger... Did Cletus mention that?"

"Colonel Graham did, Sir."

"I thought perhaps he might have," the old man said. "Anyway, I'm an oilman, and the first thing oilmen learn is that the more you know about people you're going to deal with, the better off you are. So I had a friend of mine with the foreign department of the National City Bank of New York City—when we first went into Venezuela, he was very helpful, and together we did all right down there—make some discreet inquiries about this fellow Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day down in Argentina. He reported back to me that he came from a fine family, which was highly regarded down there, and that they were, economically speaking, quite comfortable. To put a point on that, they have an estancia, what we call a ranch, that's just slightly larger than the State of Rhode Island."

"Very impressive," Ettinger said.

"The next thing I know, a couple of months later, I get a telephone call from a fellow staying at the Roosevelt Hotel. Says he's a friend of the family of Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day, and could we have lunch. I forget his name, but he was a gentleman. Charming fellow. I was halfway through having lunch with him—I had him out to the Metairie Country Club—before I realized that what he was doing was checking me out, to see if my daughter was suitable for Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day, not some Yankee gold digger after Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day's daddy's money.

"Well, I didn't take offense, because I understood. There was nothing wrong with doing that. But I called him on it, and told him we could probably save some time by me letting him know I was dead set against any marriage, but just to put my cards faceup on the table, I wasn't exactly walking around with holes in my shoes either.

“Then he told me—he was my kind of man, that fellow; I wish to God I could remember his name—that they weren't exactly thrilled down there either that Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day was determined to marry a foreigner, but there wasn't much that could be done about it.

"So I told him sure there was, all that had to happen was to have Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day's daddy tell him, and mean it, that if he married the foreign girl he could go find himself a job someplace, 'because the money tree would be cut off at the roots.' I remember using those exact words.

"And then he told me that Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day's daddy was about to pass on. Had kidney trouble, as I recall, and once the daddy was gone, there would be no control over him. And then we sat there in the bar drinking Sazeracs...

"I'll tell you a secret about New Orleans, Mr. Ettinger. If you're ever doing business in this town and the fellow offers you a Sazerac, turn him down. They sneak up on people; you could sell them the Mississippi River after they've had four of them."

"I'll remember that," Ettinger said. "Thank you."

"Anyway, I believed what this fellow was saying, so we sat there trying to salvage something from a bad situation. Well, after a while, it didn't look too bad. Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day couldn't marry while his father was dying. And they have some sort of Roman Catholic rule that the period of mourning is one year. So we had whatever time it took for Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day's daddy to die, plus a year, during which time he would work at his end, and I would work here, to simply kill the whole idea of the two of them marrying. When I drove him back to his hotel, I remember feeling a little better about the whole thing. With a little bit of luck, Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day's daddy would last a lot longer than anyone thought.

"Two weeks later he died. When my daughter heard about it, she wanted to go down there; and I had a hell of a time convincing her that before she could do that, the daddy would be a long time in his grave, and that it was unseemly, anyhow. They weren't formally engaged.

“A month after he put his daddy in the ground, Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day showed up here with an engagement ring in his pocket. And then I realized that I had lost, my precious daughter was going to marry Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day whether or not I liked it, and there was nothing I could do about it but put on a smile and act like I liked it.

"The first time this theocracy business came up was when my daughter came to me and said she wanted me to know she was going to take instruction in the Roman Catholic Church. Now, as I told you, I have nothing whatever against the Roman Catholic Church. The Archbishop here is a close personal friend. But I asked her why she wanted to do that—she was raised Episcopal, and theologically, there's not a hell of a difference between the two. And she said that for her marriage to be recognized down there, she had to get married in a Roman Catholic Church, and she couldn't do that unless she was confirmed into the Roman Catholic Church, and that her Episcopalian confirmation didn't count.

"So I called my friend the Archbishop, and he told me that was so, she couldn't get married unless she was confirmed as a Catholic, but that I shouldn't get so upset, it wasn't as if she was going to become a Holy Roller or a Jew... no offense, Mr. Ettinger. .."

"None taken, Mr. Howell," Ettinger said.

"... certainly none was intended. And the Archbishop said he would personally take care of my daughter, and that if I liked, he would perform the marriage himself, to let her new in-laws understand that our family was held in a certain regard by the Roman Catholic Church here."

"That was very gracious of him," Ettinger said.

"So that's the way it happened. A month before the official one-year mourning period was up, Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day showed up in New Orleans. I put him up in an apartment we have here in the Quarter... Cletus used to take girls there when he was at Tulane; he thought I didn't know, and I never said anything; did the same thing myself when I was in college ... and we started making arrangements for the marriage.

"It was one hell of a wedding, I'll tell you that. Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day must have a hundred and two kinfolk, and I think every one of them showed up, all the way from Argentina. They were married by the Archbishop in what they call a High Nuptial Mass in the Cathedral of St. Louis, which is also right here in the Quarter.

"I gave her away, and she was a most beautiful bride, Mr. Ettinger, so beautiful and so happy. I even went along with that dowry custom of theirs, not that Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day needed it. I gave her twenty-four-point-five percent of Howell Petroleum (Venezuela).

Am I going too fast for you, Mr. Ettinger?"

"I didn't quite understand that last. I don't mean to seem too inquisitive."

"Not at all. I think it's important, with you going down there, that you understand the situation as fully as possible. I owned one hundred percent of Howell Petroleum (Venezuela). I wanted to keep control, of course, so I had to have fifty-one percent. I had two children. That left forty-nine percent for them. Half of forty-nine percent is twenty-four-point-five percent. You understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"At the time I thought it would give my daughter a little walking-around money, so she wouldn't have to go to Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day every time she wanted a dress or a pair of shoes. So they got married and went on their honeymoon. To Europe. All over Europe. But no matter where they were, or what they were doing, my daughter wrote me a letter, two, three times a week.

"And then, before they left Europe—they were in Venice; I still have the letter—she wrote that she was in the family way, and that she wanted me to come down to Argentina and visit them, just as soon as she got her feet on the ground.

"Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day didn't invite me, you understand, my daughter did. So I went down there several months later. Went supercargo on one of our tankers. She was eight months along when I got there. She looked terrible. She was all alone in their house in Buenos Aires. Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day was out at the estancia, and sent his regrets, and would be in town in a couple of days. That poor child was lonely. Hardly any of the servants could speak any English, and she didn't speak a hell of a lot of Spanish. But I was concerned about the way she looked, so I called the Ambassador, and he recommended a good American doctor to me ... his name was Kennedy, he'd trained at Massachusetts General, and he was down there teaching Argentine doctors at the medical school of the University of Buenos Aires... and I took my daughter to see him.

"And I was right. She was a sick girl. The details are unimportant, but she was a sick girl; he took me aside and told me if she got through this confinement, she should never have another child. He told me he wasn't sure how that pregnancy was going to turn out, either. Well, he was wrong about that, of course. Cletus has been as healthy as a horse all his life. But he was right about my daughter. She damned near died in childbirth.

"Anyway, when Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day finally could get away from his estancia and come to Buenos Aires, I not only pulled him aside for a little chat, but I took him to see Doctor Kennedy. He didn't want to go, I could tell that; he didn't say anything, but I could tell he thought I was putting my nose in where it had no business. And Dr. Kennedy told him what he told me, that if my daughter managed to pull through this confinement, she should never try to have another child. It would kill her.

"So I stayed down there until the day came. She had... she had a terrible time, and we damned near lost her. She was in the hospital over a month. And I was there when they baptized Cletus into the Roman Catholic Church. They make a big thing of it down there. They did it in a place called the Basilica of Our Lady of Pilar. Their Archbishop did it.

"And then when I was sure my daughter was all right, a week or two after that, I came home. It was a pity, of course, I thought, that they could have only the one child... one child tends to get spoiled. But at least they had that, and with a little bit of luck, she could get her health back.

"Nine months after that, I got another letter. She was in the family way again. I decided against going down there... God only knows what I would have said to Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day for doing that to her, knowing what was at stake. But I telephoned Dr. Kennedy—telephoning down there in those days wasn't as easy as it is now—and asked him to see her. And two days after that I got a cable from Kennedy, saying that Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day had told him his services would not be required."

"Why?" Ettinger asked. "Did he say?"

"I think Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day was telling me to keep my nose out of his business," the old man said. "So I didn't know what the hell to do. So I went down there again, and when I saw her, she looked even worse than I imagined she would. So I had a real man-to-man talk with Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day, and he finally gave in, and I took my daughter to Dr. Kennedy. And he said—and I was there when he said it, and I know damned well that Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day understood what he said—that it was his advice, considering the clear threat to the mother's life, that the pregnancy be terMi?ated."

"I understand," Ettinger said.

"And Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day said that he would have to talk that over with his wife and his priest, and that he would let us know what had been decided."

"Abortion is against the teachings of the Roman Catholic Church," Ettinger said.

"Yeah. It is. That's what he said. But he said that under the circumstances, he was willing to let my daughter come to the United States to have the baby. Our medicine was better than their medicine, and he knew it. So we got on a ship and came here. She was sick all the way, never got out of her bed. Lost a lot of weight. Had no strength. I radioed ahead and we had an ambulance waiting on the dock when we got to Miami. I put her in a hospital in Miami and telephoned down there and told him she was in pretty bad shape. I suggested he get on a ship and come to Miami. He said he couldn't get away right then—that's what he said, he couldn't get away—and would I please keep him posted.

"Well, they fixed her up in Miami well enough so we could put her on a train and bring her here, and I put her in the hospital again here. They fixed her up well enough so I could take, her to the house, and I found nurses and whatever else she needed. She was even able to get out of bed for my son's, James Fitzhugh Howell's, wedding. We took her to Texas on a train, and she got all dressed up and watched him get married.

"Hor-gay Goool-yermo' Frah-day wrote that he would do whatever he could to be in New Orleans when the baby was born. My daughter really wanted him to come. He got here five days after my daughter's funeral, Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day did. He was all upset about that. He said that his wife should be buried in their family tomb in Buenos Aires, not in what he called 'un-consecrated ground' here. I buried her, with her baby in her arms, in our family plot. I told him she was going to stay buried where she was buried, where she belonged. And then finally he got around to asking about Cletus ... asked when could he take him back to Argentina, and could I recommend a nurse to care for the child on the trip. I told Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day that my son and his wife were caring for my grandson in Texas, and that if he went near him, my son was going to kill him."

"And what was his reaction to that?"

"I had the feeling that Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day was relieved, that the whole unfortunate business of his marriage to the foreigner from North America was over. He wouldn't have to concern himself with raising a child, he could spend all of his time on his estancia, and he could get married again to some Argentine woman without having to worry about a child."

"That's a tragic story," Ettinger said.

"I don't like to air the family linen in public, Mr. Ettinger..." the old man said.

The family linen, maybe not,Clete thought, but I've never known you to pass up an opportunity to proclaim what an unmitigated sonofabitch Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day is. I wonder if it has ever occurred to you that it's damned embarrassing for me.

Probably not. You expect me to hate him as much as you do— after all, he killed my mother. And since the child cannot choose his father, it's obviously nothing for me to be embarrassed or ashamed about.

But it is, damn it, it is. And there's no way I have ever been able to stop you.

"... but I thought, since you are going down there, a little insight into the way their minds work might be useful to you. They're all, pardon the French, sonsofbitches. The man my daughter married is not some anomaly. I, for one, haven't been surprised at all that the Argentines are on the side of the Germans in this war against us."

"I appreciate your sharing this with me, Mr. Howell," Ettinger said.

"I thought it was my duty," the old man said. "And now, Mr. Ettinger, unless you've made other plans, I was going to suggest you ride out to the house with us. I've got a bottle of cognac out there, much too good for Cletus, that I think you might appreciate."

"I hate to impose, Mr. Howell."

"Nonsense. No trouble at all. We'll have a little cognac and a cigar, and whenever you feel you should, I'll have Samuel drive you back to the Monteleone."

"Thank you very much, Sir. I'd like that."

"If you'll excuse me, I'd like to wash my hands," the old man said, and stood up. "If the waiter should get lost and come in here, Cletus, will you ask him to have Samuel bring the car around?"

"Yes, Sir," Clete said. He waited until the old man had gone, then said, "David, I'm sorry you had to sit through that. There was no stopping him."

"Actually, it was a fascinating story," Ettinger said. "And no, you couldn't have stopped him. He's like my mother."

"Your mother? Where is she?"

"In New York. She and I got out. She hates like he does. When I told her I was going to Argentina, she was disappointed. She had visions of me blowing up the Brandenburg Gate with Adolf Hitler on it."

"You told your mother you were going to Argentina?" Clete asked incredulously, angrily. "Jesus Christ, Ettinger, what the hell were you thinking about?"

Ettinger looked both shocked and distinctly uncomfortable.

I guess I sounded like a Marine officer, and he didn't expect that. Well, that's what I am.

"I presume you signed the same form that I did, which made it pretty clear it's a General Court-martial offense to have diarrhea of the mouth about what we're doing?" Clete went on coldly.

"I felt relatively sure that whatever I told my mother, she would not rush to the telephone to pass it on to the Abwehr."

"Don't be flip with me, Sergeant!" Clete said coldly. "Exactly how much did you tell your mother?"

"Just that I was going to Argentina, Sir."

That's right, Sergeant, you call me "Sir."

"To do what?"

"She knew what I've been doing here..."

"You told her what you were doing for the CIC? She and who else?"

"Just my mother, Sir. I had to tell her something. I couldn't just suddenly vanish. And what I told her seemed to be the best story I could come up with. The subject of what I was supposed to tell my mother never came up at the Country Club ..."

"You should have been able to figure that out without a diagram. You were supposed to tell her nothing! Damn it, Sergeant, you were in the CIC! You certainly should have known better than to tell anyone, much less a civilian ..."

"Sir, I don't mean to be insolent, but your grandfather seems..."

"What my grandfather knows or doesn't know is not the subject here. What you told your mother is."

"Yes, Sir. I led her to believe that I would be doing the same thing there that I'd been doing here. Making sure that the refugees are in fact refugees. I told her that when I had an address, I would send it to her, but that she shouldn't expect to hear from me for a while."

"I can't believe you told her where we're going!"

"Sir, I thought it would put her mind at rest," Ettinger said.

"You did?" Clete asked sarcastically.

"Mother knows that Argentina is neutral," Ettinger explained. "And her memories of Argentina seem to begin and end with the Teatro Col?n:"—Buenos Aires' opera house—"Spanish-speaking people with exquisite manners."

"She's been there?" Clete asked, wondering why he was surprised.

Ettinger nodded. "So have I. But I was a kid, and I can't remember a thing. My grandfather took us there."

"And how much did you tell your grandfather?"

"My grandfather died in a concentration camp, Sir."

"What's that, an attempt to invoke my sympathy?" Clete snapped, and was immediately ashamed of himself. "Sorry, Ettinger. Colonel Graham told me about your family. I was out of line."

Ettinger met his eyes. After a moment, he said, "So, apparently, was I. What happens now?"

"I don't know what the hell to do about this, frankly."

"If it would make it any easier for you, I'll report my... indiscretion to the people from the Country Club tomorrow."

" 'Indiscretion'?" Clete snapped. "I'd call it stupidity. Incredible stupidity."

"Yes, Sir. I can see from your standpoint that it would be."

"And from your standpoint?"

"I had to tell her something, Lieutenant. That was the best I could come up with."

"Incredible stupidity," Clete repeated.

Ettinger stood up.

"Where are you going?" Clete demanded.

"Back to the hotel, Sir. Under the circumstances, it would be awkward with your grandfather. I'll make a report..."

"If a report is made, Sergeant, I'll make it," Clete thought aloud, and then added, "The damage, if any, has already been done."

"Sir, I don't think there will be any damage. I made the point to my mother that this assignment, including our destination, was classified. She won't say anything to anybody."

"We don't know that, do we?"

"No, Sir. We don't."

If I turn him in for this, it will really screw things up. Colonel Graham feels that getting us down there as soon as possible is damned important. If they have to scrounge around for a replacement for Ettinger— and that would obviously be difficult— God only knows how long a delay there would be.

Or this fellow Pelosi and I will get sent down there by ourselves.

I need him. It's as simple as that.

"We never had this conversation, Ettinger," Clete said. "You understand me?"

"Yes, Sir. Thank you."

"Don't misunderstand me. I'm not being a nice guy. I just think turning you in would do more damage to this mission than taking you with us."

"I understand."

"I wonder if you do," Clete said. "But the subject is closed. The conversation never occurred. Clear?''

"Yes, Sir."

"Besides," Clete said, smiling. It took more than a little effort. “If you were missing when my grandfather finishes his piss call, I would have to explain your absence. My grandfather, as you may have noticed, is a difficult man."

"I repeat, Lieutenant, thank you. I really want to go on this mission. It's much more important than what I've been doing."

"Try to keep that in mind," Clete said. "Now let's change the subject."

Ettinger nodded, then smiled.

"My grandfather was not unlike yours. A difficult man."

I don't really give a damn about your grandfather, Ettinger.

"Really?"

"He believed what he wanted to believe, and the facts be damned. He chose to believe that despite what was going on, he was perfectly safe in Berlin. What was happening to the Jews there was happening only to the Slavic Jews, not to good German Jews like him. After all, he had won the Iron Cross as an infantry officer in France in the First World War."

"That didn't do him any good?"

"No. They took him away. He died 'of pneumonia' in a place called Sachsenhausen."

"You hate the Germans? In the way my grandfather hates the Argentines?"

"No. I understand that the flesh is weak. If you hate weak people, you hate everybody. If you're asking if I'm motivated to go to Argentina, yes, I think I can do—we can do—some good down there."

"Blowing up 'neutral' ships?"

"That, certainly. And perhaps doing something about keeping the Argentine equivalent of the Nazis from taking over the country. The Nazis took over Germany because nobody fought back."

Cletus Marcus Howell pushed open the curtain and came back into the small room. His eyes passed back and forth between them as if he sensed something was wrong.

"Have you asked for the car?" he demanded after a moment's hesitation.

"No, but I will bet it's been waiting outside for the last half hour while you bored David with our family linen."

"I don't think I bored Mr. Ettinger, did I, Mr. Ettinger?"

"Not at all, Sir."

"Sometimes, Cletus, I don't understand you at all," the old man said. "Shall we go?"

[TWO]

The Gulf, Mobile and Ohio Railway TerMi?al

Canal Street

New Orleans, Louisiana

1030 2 November 1942

Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, CE, AUS, late of the 82nd Airborne Division, had been thinking—especially for the last couple of hours—that Captain McGuire was right after all: Applying for this OSS shit was a mistake; where he belonged was with the 82nd Airborne.

In another couple of weeks, he would have made first lieutenant (promotion was automatic after six months' time in grade), and as a first lieutenant he could not be ranked out of command of his platoon. He would have been the permanent— notthe temporary—commanding officer of an Engineer platoon in the 82nd Airborne Division... and not where he was, masquerading as a goddamned civilian.

When Colonel Baxter F. Newton-Haddle called him in for what he called a "pre-mission briefing," he told him he was to report for duty in New Orleans in civilian clothing. He asked him if that was going to pose any problem. Pelosi said, "No, Sir."

Tony Pelosi liked and admired Colonel Newton-Haddle. For one thing, the Colonel was also a paratrooper. Paratroopers are special people. In the briefing Colonel Newton-Haddle gave when they first came to the Country Club, he told them about what the people in OSS did—like making night jumps into France and Italy and connecting up with the resistance and showing them how to blow up bridges and tunnels. Doing those kinds of things would maybe make being in the OSS OK. But what he was about to do now was go into some goddamned South American neutral country where a bunch of taco eaters in big hats sat around in the shade playing guitars.

Colonel Newton-Haddle didn't tell him much about what he was supposed to do in Argentina, except they had to "take out" a ship, some kind of a freighter that was supplying German submarines. He explained that the ship would be neutral. By "take out" Colonel Newton-Haddle obviously meant "blow up," or at least put a hole in it large enough to sink it.

That bothered Tony Pelosi. It wasn't a warship, but a civilian freighter. If there were people on it, they would be civilians; and if they were on the ship when he set off his charges—as sure as Christ made little apples—some of them would get hurt, get killed. German sailors were one thing, civilian merchant seamen another.

When he was in OCS, he'd studied the Geneva Convention long enough to know that if they were caught trying to blow a hole in a civilian merchant ship, they would not be treated like prisoners of war, but like criMi?als, maybe even pirates. If they were caught after they blew it up, and civilians had been killed, they might be put on trial in some taco eaters' court for murder.

This wasn't what he had had in mind when he volunteered for the OSS. Parachuting into France to show the French underground how to blow up the Nazi submarine pens at St. Lazaire was one thing; sneaking into some South American neutral country pretending to be a civilian and blowing up a civilian ship was different.

Anyway, when Colonel Newton-Haddle asked him if civilian clothing was going to pose a problem, he said "No, Sir," because he didn't think it would be. But when he got home, went to his room and locked the door so nobody in the family would see him and ask what he was doing, and tried to put on his civilian clothes, none of them fit.

The first thing he thought was that the goddamned dry cleaners had shrunk them. That had happened before. But not even his shirts fit, and the dry cleaner couldn't have fucked them up, because his shirts had been washed and ironed in the house by the maid.

After a while, though, what happened finally hit him: All the physical training he'd gone through, first basic training, then Officer Candidate School, and then jump school had really changed his body. He had real muscles now. That was why his jackets were too tight at the shoulders and he couldn't even button his shirt collars.

It didn't matter as long as he could wear his uniform. Colonel Newton-Haddle not only told him that he could wear his uniform at home, because that would keep people from asking questions about how come he wasn't, but that he should. And there wasn't a hell of a lot wrong with wearing the parachute wings and jump boots; that went with being an officer of the 82nd Airborne Division. He wore his uniform the two times he went out with his brothers, Angelo, Frank, and Dominic. And if it weren't for Dominic, he knew damned well he could have gotten laid. But you don't try to get laid when you're out with a brother who is a priest and who is out drinking with you only because of a special dispensation from the pastor of his parish, because he told him you were going overseas.

Colonel Newton-Haddle had also told him he should explain to his family that he was going on temporary duty with a special engineer unit, and gave him an address in Washington where they could write to him. But he was not to tell them anything about going to Argentina; that was classified. So he hadn't. An order is an order.

So what he did was wear his uniform all the time he was home. And then, along with his uniforms, he packed a sports shirt, a pair of pants, a two-tone (yellow sleeves and collar, blue body) zipper jacket with "Pelosi and Sons Salvage Company" lettered on the back, and a pair of shoes. They got him a compartment on the Crescent City Limited, and he decided to just wait until he was almost in New Orleans to change into the civilian stuff. The OSS gave him a check for two hundred dollars to buy civilian clothing; he'd do that in New Orleans. And he'd ask what he should do with his uniforms; he didn't think they'd want him to take them down to South America.

Two things went wrong with that plan. First of all, he wasn't all alone in the compartment. He thought he would have it all to himself, but when he got on the train there was already a guy in it. He was an expediter for the Western Electric Company, whatever the fuck that meant. So Tony had to come up with a bullshit story about having just been discharged from the 82nd Airborne because of a bad back he got jumping. Even when he showed the guy the draft card Colonel Newton-Haddle gave him that said he was an honorably discharged veteran, he didn't think the Western Union guy believed him. And he sure gave him a funny look when he started changing out of his uniform and putting on the Cicero Softball League jacket.

He really hated taking off his uniform, especially the jump boots. You had to earn jump boots, and he really liked the way they felt, as well as the way they looked (he'd polished them so you could actually see your face reflected in the shine of the toes). He wondered when the hell he would ever be able to put them on again.

And then his goddamned civilian shoes were too small. He couldn't figure that out. As far as he knew, there were no muscles in the feet, so they shouldn't have grown the way his back and arms and neck had. But he could barely get the goddamned things on his feet; and when he did, it hurt him even to walk around the compartment. And when he walked three cars down to the dining car to have breakfast, his feet hurt him so much he didn't believe it.

When he got back to the compartment, he took off his shoes. And when they pulled into the train station in New Orleans, he took his socks off and put the shoes back on without them.

Fuck how it looks. If I wear the socks, I'll never make it all the way down the platform and into the station.

Halfway down the platform, Tony saw Staff Sergeant Ettinger waiting for him, just inside the station at the end of the platform. Ettinger was wearing a three-piece suit, and he was talking to a tall guy wearing a cowboy hat, boots, and a sheepskin coat.

The shit-kicker probably asked him a question or something.

When Ettinger saw him, he smiled and waved, and Tony walked up to him.

"What do you say, Ettinger?" Tony said.

"Nice trip, Tony?"

"It was all right."

Tony saw the cowboy looking at his bare ankles.

Fuck you, Tex! Anybody wearing beat-up boots like yours is in no position to say anything about anybody else.

"Tony, this is... Mr. Frade," Ettinger said.

Mr. Frade? This cowboy is Lieutenant Frade? A Marine officer?

"Good morning, Sir," Lieutenant Pelosi said.

" 'Morning," Clete replied. "Pelosi, from here on in, you can belay the 'Sir' business."

"Excuse me?"

"We're supposed to be civilians. Civilians don't say 'Sir.' I'm Clete. He's David. What's your first name?"

"Anthony, Sir," Tony said. Then, "Sorry."

"That all your luggage, Anthony?"

"Yes, S— Yeah."

"We're parked out in front," Clete said, then laughed. "What did you do, Anthony, forget your socks?"

"My shoes are too small."

"Well, then, we better stop on the way to the hotel and find you some that fit," Clete said. "Our mentors, who got here at seven this morning, are already convinced that David and I are retarded; if you showed up in bare feet, that would be too much for them."

Ettinger laughed.

Tony Pelosi had no idea what a "mentor" was, but he was goddamned if he was going to ask.

[THREE]

The Franco-Spanish Border

1525 3 November 1942

Train Number 1218 of the Soci?t? Nationale des Chemins de Fer Francais (Paris-Barcelona-Madrid) would be late crossing the border, but there was nothing the officials of the French National Railroad could do about it. It had been requested of them by the representative of the German Rail Coordination Bureau: (a) that a goods wagon then sitting in Paris (number furnished herewith), a Grande Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits sleeping car with crew, and a first-class passenger car be attached to Number 1218; and (b) that Number 1218's schedule be "adjusted" to permit a fifteen- to thirty-minute ceremony at the Spanish border; and (c) that officials of the Spanish National Railroad be informed of the change of schedule.

At 1455, fifteen minutes before Number 1218 was due, the gate (an arrangement of timbers and barbed wire) across the tracks on the Spanish side of the border was moved aside by Spanish Border Police. A moment later a tiny yard engine pushed a passenger car of the Spanish National Railroad across what everybody called "No-Man's-Land" to the similar gate across the tracks on the French side of the border.

After a minute's conversation between French and Spanish officials, the French gate was opened and the yard engine pushed the Spanish passenger car approximately 300 meters farther into the Border Station, where it stopped. About forty rifle-armed members of the Guardia Nacional, all wearing their distinctive stiff black leather hats, debarked from the passenger car and formed two ranks on the platform. A moment after that, two officers of the Guardia Nacional came down from the passenger car, together with four more enlisted men, two of whom carried flags on poles.

One of the flags was that of Spain. The other was unusual. But it was finally identified by one of the French customs officials as the flag of Argentina. The men carrying the flags arranged themselves before the members of the Guardia Nacional, and the two Guardia Nacional enlisted men who had gotten off the train last took up places beside them.

At 1505, five minutes early, Number 1218 moved into the station, on a track parallel to the one where the Spanish National Railways car had stopped. The members of a small Luftwaffe band, equipped primarily with trumpets and drums, descended from the passenger car and formed up quickly under the direction of their bandmaster. They were followed by a mixed detachment of Luftwaffe, Waffen-SS, and Wehrmacht troops, three of each under the command of a Luftwaffe captain. They formed up and were marched back to the goods wagon, from which four of their number removed two sawhorses.

They set up the sawhorses on the platform between the Guardia Nacional and the band. The sawhorses were then covered with a pleated black material which concealed them. They then returned to the goods wagon, from which they removed a very heavy casket, across which the flag of Argentina was draped diagonally.

The flag had three broad stripes running horizontally, first light blue, then white, then again light blue. In the center of the white central stripe was the face of maybe the sun-god. It was golden and smiling. Radiating from it were red streaks, which were probably intended to represent sunbeams.

In the opinion of most of the French Railway officials, it was not a very civilized flag. Perhaps the sort of thing one might expect of some far-off former colony which now imagined itself to be a nation, but not civilized. Provincial people like that never knew when to stop; they could be counted on, so to speak, to try to gild the lily.

The casket-carrying detachment arranged themselves around the casket, four men to a side, one man at the head. The Luftwaffe captain placed himself at the foot of the casket, ordered "Vor-warts!" and somewhat awkwardly (it was extraordinarily heavy), the casket was carried down the platform and installed on the sawhorses.

As soon as this was accomplished, officers and enlisted personnel of the Wehrmacht, the Luftwaffe, and the Waffen-SS began to debark from the passenger and Wagons-Lits cars—enlisted and officers from the former, and from the latter officers only, including a Luftwaffe Oberst, an Oberstleutnant from the Wehrmacht, a Waffen-SS Obersturmbannfuhrer (the Waffen-SS equivalent of an Oberstleutnant, or lieutenant colonel), a Luftwaffe Hauptmann, and then a tall, thin, olive-skinned man wearing a uniform no one could recall ever seeing before.

It was decided that he must have something to do with the casket covered with the smiling sun-god flag, and that he therefore must be an Argentinean. It was also noticed that the Luftwaffe Hauptmann in his dress uniform had the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross hanging around his neck. One didn't see too many of those.

The officers and men who had debarked from the passenger car formed a double rank facing the Guardia Nacional. Two photographers in Wehrmacht uniforms, one still and one motion picture, and a Wehrmacht lieutenant armed with a clipboard now appeared.

At this point, two more uniformed officers descended from the Spanish National Railways car that had been pushed backward into the border station. One was a coronel, the other a teniente. They were photographed and filmed as they walked across the platform and exchanged military salutes and then handshakes with the German officers and with the one who was probably an Argentinean.

All the officers then formed in a line, facing the flag-covered casket. The Luftwaffe colonel looked at the officer commanding the mixed detachment of German Armed Forces personnel. He in turn looked at the bandmaster, who raised his drum major's baton.

"Achtung!" the officer commanding the mixed detachment barked, and everybody came to attention, including the members of the Guardia Nacional.

The bandleader moved his drum major's baton downward in a violent motion. The strains of "Deutschland, Deutschland, Uber Alles" erupted from the band. The officers in the rank, except the Wehrmacht Oberstleutnant and the Luftwaffe captain with the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross, extended their arms in the locked-elbow, fingers-together, flat salute of the Third Reich. The Oberstleutnant and the Hauptmann rendered the old-fashioned hand salute.

The German national anthem was followed by those of Spain and Argentina. And most of the French Railway officials agreed that the Argentinean anthem, like the sun-god flag, was a bit overdone.

When the music was finished, the casket was carried back to the goods wagon and placed aboard, with the photographers recording the event for posterity. The Spanish personnel returned to their passenger car and boarded it, and it immediately moved back across the border.

The German military personnel, except the officers, reboarded the first-class car. The officers entered the railroad station, where refreshments had been laid out for them. Number 1218 then backed out of the station to the yard, where the first-class passenger car was detached for subsequent attachment to Number 1219 (Madrid-Barcelona-Paris), which was due at the border crossing at 1615. Number 1218 then returned to the place where it had originally stopped, and the word was given first to the Feldgendarmerie and then to the French Immigration et Douane and Sfirete Nationale personnel that they might now commence their routine immigration, customs, and security checks of Number 1218's passengers.

A few minutes later, the Luftwaffe captain with the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross came out of the station alone. He had with him not only his cognac snifter, but a bottle of cognac. He boarded the Wagons-Lits car.

At 1550, only twenty-five minutes behind schedule, the conductor signaled Number 1218's engineer that he could proceed through No-Man's-Land to Spanish customs. They were only five minutes behind the regular schedule. The ceremony had not taken as long as they had planned for. They probably wouldn't have been late at all, perhaps even a few minutes early, had not the Suretd Nationale grown suspicious of some travel documents and checked them out. They discovered four more Jews trying to reach Spain on forged travel documents and passports.

[FOUR]

So far as he could recall, el Coronel Alejandro Manuel Portez-Halle of the Office of Liaison of the Royal Army to the Foreign Ministry had never heard the name of el Coronel Juan Domingo Per?n of the Argentinean Army, until three days before when this rather absurd business of the Germans sending a body home to Argentina came up.

This was both surprising and rather embarrassing—he had spent enough time in Argentina over the years to learn at least the names of the more important Argentinean officers. On the other hand, the Foreign Ministry seemed to know a great deal about el Coronel Juan Domingo Per?n , including the fact that he was quite close to el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade. Portez-Halle had come to know Frade rather well when he'd been in Argentina. He'd even spent some time on Frade's estancia, San Pedro y San Pablo, shooting partridge and wood pigeon. In the evenings, over cigars and surprisingly first-rate Argentinean brandy, they'd shared stories of their days as junior officers.

Frade was important because of his connection with the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos. According to the latest word from the Spanish Embassy in Buenos Aires, these men were about to stage a coup d'?at. And Frade was reported to be the brains behind the plot, and certainly the financier.

Colonel Juan Domingo Per?n , Portez-Halle had been told, was attached to the Argentinean Embassy in Berlin and would be accompanying the young Argentinean's body to Lisbon, where it would be put aboard an Argentinean merchant vessel for repatriation. The dead officer was the nephew of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade. Which probably explained why the Germans were going to all the fuss they were making. They knew who Frade was, too.

The Foreign Ministry originally intended to send an official of suitable rank—say, a deputy minister—to represent El Caudillo (General Francisco Franco, the Spanish dictator) at the border. But after Portez-Halle had brought up the Per?n -Frade-Portez-Halle connection, it was obvious that he should go. He would, he said, take El Coronel Per?n into his home during the layover in Madrid. And have a dinner for him. Considering the importance of Per?n connection to Frade, it was suggested that El Caudillo himself might come to dinner. Or drop by to show his respect.

There had not been time, of course, to issue a formal invitation to el Coronel Per?n , but Portez-Halle had not considered that a major problem. He would seek him out at the border, identify himself as a friend of Jorge Guillermo Frade, and make the invitation there.

At that point the plans went awry.

"I'm not going any further than the border," Per?n told him. "And if it wasn't for the insistence of the Germans, I wouldn't have come this far. But I thank you for your most gracious offer of hospitality."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'd looked forward to it."

"It's simply impossible," Per?n replied, "but I'll tell you what you could do."

"Tell me."

"The young Luftwaffe officer, the captain?" Per?n went on, just perceptibly nodding his head toward a blond-headed young German around whose neck, Portez-Halle noticed, hung the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross.

"Yes. That's Baron von Wachtstein. He's escorting the remains. He's a very nice young man. I'm sure he would be most grateful for a hot meal and a warm bed in Madrid. They just took his fighter squadron away from him, and he's very unhappy about that. I don't think he should be left alone in Madrid; he takes a drink sometimes when he perhaps should not, if you take my meaning."

"It will be my pleasure," Portez-Halle said.

"I would be in your debt," Per?n said.

Once the Paris-Barcelona-Madrid train cleared Spanish customs, changed engines, and got underway, Colonel Portez-Halle went into his luggage, took out a small leather box, and told el Teniente Savorra that he was going to look in on the young German officer.

As he walked into the Wagons-Lits sleeping car, he wondered idly what had been the peculiarly Teutonic logic behind the decision to send the Wagons-Lits on to Barcelona and Madrid with a lowly captain as its sole passenger. They could more easily have detached the car at the border and sent it back to Paris with all the other German officers. It would make more sense to have one junior officer change cars than ten or fifteen officers, including a German and an Argentinean full colonel. Colonel Portez-Halle had long ago decided he would never understand how the German mind worked. But it was sometimes interesting to try.

He next wondered if he was going to have to knock at each of the doors in the Wagons-Lits car until he found the young officer. But this didn't happen. He faintly heard an obscenity, and knowing that would have been impossible through a closed door, he walked down the corridor until he came to an open one. And there was the young officer, attired in his underwear.

"Guten Tag, Herr Hauptmann," Colonel Portez-Halle said.

"Buenas tardes, mi Coronel," Hauptmann Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein replied, visibly surprised, as he started to rise.

"Yo soy el Coronel Portez-Halle."

"A sus ?rdenes, mi Coronel. Yo soy el Capitan von Wachtstein."

"You speak Spanish very well, Captain."

"Gracias, mi Coronel."

"I thought perhaps you might like a small taste of brandy."

"You're very gracious," Peter said. "I was just changing out of my uniform. You'll have to excuse me. I didn't really expect visitors."

"Colonel Per?n asked me to look after you."

"Then you are both very gracious," Peter said.

"An old friend of the family, I gathered?" Portez-Halle asked as he walked into the compartment, laid the small leather case on the seat, and started to open it.

"No, Sir," Peter said. "I met the Colonel when I got involved in all this..." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the goods wagon.

"Then I must have misunderstood," Portez-Halle said. He took two small crystal glasses from the case, then a flat-sided crystal flask.

"Are you familiar with our brandy?"

"At one time I was so fond of it. Sir, that it was said I grew too familiar with it."

Portez-Halle glanced at him and smiled. The Argentinean was right; this was a nice young man, and his behavior suggested that he was accustomed to dealing with senior officers. He could also smell cognac on his breath. Per?n had been right about that too. Alcohol had ruined the career of more than one fine young officer of Portez-Halle's acquaintance.

"You served with the Condor Legion, I gather?"

"Yes, Sir."

The least I can do for someone who risked his life to spare Spain from the communists is take him into my home overnight and keep him from temptation.

Portez-Halle poured brandy into both glasses, handed one to Peter, then raised the other.

"Por Capitan Duarte. Que Dios lo tenga en la gloria." (Freely: "May he rest in peace.") "El Capitan Duarte," Peter said politely. "You knew him well?" Portez-Halle asked. "I never knew him at all. All I know about him is that he was shot down at Stalingrad flying a Fieseler Storch that he should not have been flying in the first place, and that he was apparently well-connected."

"Why do you say that?"

"They're sending his body home, they relieved me of my command of a fighter staffel to go with it, and you saw that business at the border. They did just about the same thing when we left Berlin."

"Colonel Per?n suggested that you yourself are 'well-connected.' "

"My father is Generalmajor Graf von Wachtstein, if that's what you mean."

"Why do I have the feeling, Captain, that you are not particularly pleased with the assignment?"

"I am an officer. I go where I am sent, and do what I'm told to do."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Just before you came, mi Coronel, I was asking myself the same question. I concluded that only a fool would be unhappy with this assignment. I'm going to a neutral country where it is highly unlikely that I will be asked to lay down my life for the Fatherland."

"And did you decide whether or not you were such a fool?" Portez-Halle asked with a smile.

"I am not a fool," Peter said.

"You'll be staying in Argentina?"

"You caught me in the midst of my metamorphosis between soldier and diplomat," Peter said. "I was, more than symbolically, changing into civilian clothing to go with my new diplomatic passport. I am being assigned to the German Embassy in Buenos Aires as the assistant military attach? for air."

"An important stepping-stone in a career," Portez-Halle said. "I was once an assistant military attach? In Warsaw, 1933-34. It was said that it would round out my experience."

"That has been mentioned to me," Peter said.

"What is your schedule in Madrid?"

"I change trains to Lisbon."

"Is someone meeting you?"

"I was told someone from our Embassy will meet the train, arrange for the casket to be taken care of overnight, get me a hotel for the night, and then put both of us aboard the Lisbon train in the morning."

"It would give me great pleasure, Hauptmann von Wachtstein, if you would permit me to have you as my guest at my home while you are in Madrid."

"That's very gracious, but unnecessary, Sir."

"It would be my pleasure."

And,Portez-Halle had a sudden pleasant inspiration, I will send a letter with you to Jorge Guillermo Frade. You will meet him, of course; but he would be likely to dismiss you as unimportant. I will write dear old Jorge that our mutual friend el Coronel Juan Domingo Per?n considers von Wachtstein to be a charming young officer — and I agreed—and that he was chosen to accompany the remains both because of his distinguished war record and because his father is a major general.

Frade will like that. And it will let him know that I did my best to pay our most sincere respects to the late Captain Duarte— both personally and as the special representative of El Caudillo.

"Well then, Sir, thank you very much."

Chapter Six

[ONE]

The Office of the Ambassador

The Embassy of the German Reich

Avenida Cordoba

Buenos Aires. Argentina

1615 7 November 1942

Ambassador von Lutzenberger would have been hard-pressed to decide which of the two men now standing before his desk he disliked more. One of them at a time was pressing enough, and the two of them together would almost certainly ruin his dinner.

Anton von Gradny-Sawz, First Secretary of the Embassy of the German Reich to the Republic of Argentina, was a tall, almost handsome, somewhat overweight forty-five-year-old with a full head of luxuriant reddish-brown hair. He was sure he owed this to his Hungarian heritage. As he sometimes put it, flashing one of his charming smiles, he was a German with roots in Hungary who happened to be born in Ostmark—as Austria was called after it was absorbed into Germany after the Anschluss of 1938. He would often add that a Gradny-Sawz had been nervously treading the marble-floored corridors of one embassy or another for almost two hundred years.

Oberst Karl-Heinz Gr?ner, the Military Attach?, was a tall, ascetic-looking man who appeared older than his thirty-nine years ... and who loathed Gradny-Sawz both personally and professionally. Die grosse Wienerwurst (the Big Vienna Sausage), as he and von Lutzenberger both thought of him, not only had an exaggerated opinion of his own professional skill and importance but also tended to interfere with Oberst Gr?ner's sub rosa function in the Embassy as the representative of the Abwehr—the Intelligence Department of the German Armed Forces High Command.

His Excellency, Manfred Alois Graf von Lutzenberger, Ambassador of the German Reich to the Republic of Argentina, was a slight, very thin, fifty-three-year-old who wore what was left of his thinning hair plastered across his skull. Von Lutzenbergers, he often thought when he had to deal with Gradny-Sawz, had been treading without nervousness the marble-floored corridors of one embassy or another since 1660, when Friedrich Graf von Lutzenberger had arranged Prussia's full independence from Polish suzerainty for Friedrich Wilhelm, the Great Elector. That was nearly three hundred years ago. When, in other words, Gradny-Sawz's ancestors in Hungary were just learning how to ride horses using saddles, and Gr?ner's antecedents were sleeping with their milch cows in some stone-and-thatch cottage in a remote meadow in the Bavarian Alps.

"Your Excellency, there has been a cable from the Foreign Ministry vis-a-vis the Duarte remains," Gradny-Sawz began. "I thought Oberst Gr?ner should be brought into this as soon as possible."

"That's the Argentinean boy who was killed at Stalingrad?" von Lutzenberger asked.

"Yes. His remains are to be placed aboard the General Belgrano of the Lineas Maritimos de Argentina y Europa at Lisbon. They are being accompanied by a Hauptmann von Wachtstein of the Luftwaffe. The Belgrano is scheduled to sail from Lisbon for Buenos Aires at 0700, Lisbon time, November 8."

"Have you a first name on von Wachtstein?"

"I have it here somewhere," Gradny-Sawz said, and began to search in his pockets for a notebook.

"I don't have his first name at hand, Sir," Gr?ner said. "But he is the son of Generalmajor Graf von Wachtstein."

"How did you come by that information?"

"In a cable informing me that he is being assigned to me as my Deputy for Air," Gr?ner said.

"Hans-Peter are his Christian names, Your Excellency," Gradny-Sawz announced, reading from his leather-bound notebook. “He has been awarded, personally, from the hands of the F?hrer, the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross."

"How interesting," the ambassador said. "I'm sure there is a reason why it was impossible to consult with me—or, for that matter, you, Gr?ner—before this gentleman was assigned to us."

Both Gr?ner and Gradny-Sawz smiled uneasily, but said nothing. Ambassador von Lutzenberger frequently complained that the Foreign Ministry did not consult with him as often as was necessary.

Well, they swallowed that whole,von Lutzenberger thought, a trifle smugly. I asked who von Wachtstein was; when told, I was annoyed that no one informed me about his assignment here. Therefore, they don't have any idea that his father and I are connected.

"There is a question of protocol, Your Excellency, that I thought you should resolve," Gradny-Sawz said.

"Which is?"

"On the one hand, Hauptmann Duarte was the only son of Humberto Valdez Duarte, the banker. Under those circumstances, one would think that as First Secretary, I would deal with the family, as I did when we learned of Captain Duarte's tragic death. On the other hand, Captain Jorge Duarte's mother—Beatrice Frade de Duarte—is the sister of Oberst Jorge Guillermo Frade; I think it reasonable to presume he was named for him. Under those circumstances, considering Frade's importance, perhaps Gr?ner would be the man to handle things."

Ambassador von Lutzenberger focused on Gradny-Sawz's motives in raising the question, rather than on the question itself, the answer to which seemed self-evident. The more important an indigenous official was, the more senior the Embassy official should be. In the diplomatic hierarchy, a first secretary was far senior to a military attache1.

And Gradny-Sawz certainly knew this.

So why was he raising the question? In terms of real power, so far as von Lutzenberger was concerned, the two were about equal, and thus equally dangerous. In addition to being his man in Argentina, Gr?ner was a close personal friend of Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, the head of the Abwehr. One did not cross Canaris, or his friends, without good reason.

Gradny-Sawz's influence, above and beyond that which went with his rank in the Foreign Ministry, came from his early and close ties to the inner circle of the Nazi party. The National Socialists had been desperate early on for the support of the aristocracy. It lent them, they believed, a respectability they would otherwise not have had. Gradny-Sawz's early support of the Nazis had been a clever career move. He had nothing, really, to lose by announcing his conviction that Adolf Hitler and his National Socialists were the one hope of das deutsche Volk, and that Austria should "return" to the German fatherland.

He could have been discharged from the Austrian Foreign Ministry, of course—and certainly should have been—for bad judgment, or disloyalty. But he was only a minor functionary at the time, and he didn't need a job. The Gradny-Sawz estates in Hungary were extensive; and in those days he had dual citizenship; he might even have been able to buy his way into the Hungarian Foreign Service.

But he bet on the right horse. The National Socialists came to power; and in 1938 Austria became Ostmark. And the Nazis rewarded their friends: Gradny-Sawz was "absorbed" into the German Foreign Ministry and assigned to the Embassy in Paris as Third Secretary for Commercial Affairs. In 1941, he was assigned to Buenos Aires as First Secretary.

A colleague in the Foreign Ministry took von Lutzenberger aside during a visit to Buenos Aires and warned him that Gradny-Sawz had friends at the highest levels in the Sicherheitsdienst— the German Secret Service—and it could be presumed that he was reporting to them whenever Embassy personnel—the Ambassador included—strayed from his notion of the correct National Socialist path.

Gradny-Sawz reveled in high-level social intercourse.

Ordinarily, Die grosse Wienerwurst would be doing whatever he could to make sure Gr?ner did not usurp this privilege. He would not be asking me whether I think Gr?ner should be brought into the matter. The question then becomes, why?

Because he is afraid that something is going to go wrong. What, I have no idea, for what can possibly go wrong with a funeral, however grotesquely medieval it will be here in Catholic Argentina?

Perhaps he is concerned that he will somehow offend Colonel Frade. Or a member of his family. And he wants to see that Gr?ner is the one who will be in hot water if it does. Or else he wants to be able to say, if something goes wrong, that I ordered him to deal with the Duartes and/or Colonel Frade.

Gradny-Sawz, I know, belongs to the School of Diplomatic Practice that holds that one cannot endanger one's diplomatic career if one avoids any situation of conflict, however unimportant.

"Quite right, Gradny-Sawz," the ambassador said. "It is a delicate matter. Give me the details, and I will contact Frade myself. Have him to lunch, perhaps. And then I will decide which of you should carry out our role in Hauptmann Duarte's funeral."

He could tell from the look on Gradny-Sawz's face that that was not the response he was looking for.

What did you want me to say? What are you after?

"While I have you both here," Ambassador von Lutzenberger said. "It seems that three American— NorthAmerican—nationals, employed by the Radio Corporation of America, have disappeared. This has been reported to the Argentinean authorities, specifically to the police commander of the Distrito Federal."

(The Federal District, somewhat similar in character to the District of Columbia, lies within the Province of Buenos Aires, and includes the city of Buenos Aires.)

"Oh, really?" Gradny-Sawz said, somewhat smugly. "It is being bandied about that certain individuals connected with our embassy have knowledge of this matter. These allegations have also come to the attention of the Federal Police."

"I heard the same story," Gradny-Sawz said. "In fact, I have the feeling that the Americans will not be heard from again." "Tell me what rumors you have heard," the Ambassador said. "Your Excellency will understand that these are only rumors," Gradny-Sawz said, visibly enjoying himself, "for I, of course, have no personal information about this incident."

"What did you hear, Anton?" the Ambassador pursued, hoping that neither impatience nor disgust was evident in his voice.

"I heard, Your Excellency, that these three Yankees were suspected of certain activities involving neutral shipping—"

"Suspected by the Argentine authorities, you mean?" von Lutzenberger interrupted.

"Yes, Sir. They were suspected of attempting to interfere with neutral shipping, specifically with a Swedish merchant vessel, the Sundsvall, which was anchored in the Bahfa Samboromb?n while conducting repairs to one of its engines."

(The Rio de la Plata, which empties into the South Atlantic Ocean, separates Argentina from Uruguay. The mouth of the river, which is defined as a line between Punta Norte del Cabo San Antonio, Argentina, and Punta del Este, Uruguay, is approximately 160 miles wide. The Bay of Samboromb?n lies just inside this line.)

"Where exactly in the Bay?" von Lutzenberger asked. "Approximately thirty kilometers east of Pipinas, Your Excellency," Gradny-Sawz said. "The Americans, or so the story goes, were about to attempt to sabotage the Sundsvall —to blow a hole in her hull. To this end, they acquired a small motorboat. Their activities came to the attention of the Argentinean Navy, and a patrol boat was sent to locate them. The Americans refused orders to heave to, and a warning shot was fired. Unfortunately, the gunner's aim was off, and the warning shot hit their vessel and sank it."

"But there has been no official report of this incident?"

"I would ascribe that, Your Excellency, to Argentinean pride. It would be embarrassing for them to publicly acknowledge that their gunnery is not what it should be. And unfortunately, there were no survivors."

"You're sure of that?" von Lutzenberger asked.

"My sources inform me, Your Excellency, that a search of the area was made and no survivors were found. I doubt if there will be."

Von Lutzenberger grunted.

"And do your sources confirm what the First Secretary has told me, Herr Oberst?"

"Yes, Sir. The details are essentially the same."

"And do you both confirm that no one can connect these unfortunate events with anyone at the embassy?"

"I very much doubt if anything like that will happen, Your Excellency," Gradny-Sawz said.

"Herr Oberst?"

"I think that the Argentineans and the Americans will both try to forget this incident as quickly as possible."

"And, Herr Oberst, did your sources tell you whether these three unfortunates might be employed by the American Federal Bureau of Investigation or their Office of Strategic Services?"

"It seems, Your Excellency," Gr?ner said, "that they were connected with the OSS."

Von Lutzenberger looked at Gradny-Sawz, who nodded.

"Pity," von Lutzenberger said. "If we could have tied them to the 'Legal Affairs Office' of the U.S. Embassy, we could almost certainly have had several people expelled as persona non grata. And what of the ship? The Sundsvall?"

"I believe that once her engines were repaired, she sailed the following morning."

"And her master made no report of this incident?"

“Her master probably decided the less he had to with the Argentinean authorities, the better," Gradny-Sawz said.

"Then she won't be coming back?"

"She is to be replaced, Sir," Gr?ner replied. "She was in these waters for almost two months; her stores were nearly exhausted."

"The Bay of Samboromb?n is quite wide and quite empty. I would like to know how these Americans located the ship," von Lutzenberger said. "Do you think someone in the Argentinean Navy, or elsewhere in the government, told them?"

"I don't think that's possible," Gradny-Sawz said, almost indignantly.

"Anything is possible, my dear Anton," von Lutzenberger said. "Since we know that people in the Argentinean military services and their government will confide in you matters they perhaps should not, I think we have to presume, don't you, that there are people in the same places who talk to Americans about things they probably should not talk about."

"There are even, my dear Gradny-Sawz," Colonel Gr?ner said, "some Argentineans, in and out of the government, who hope for an Anglo-American victory."

Gradny-Sawz gave him a cold look, but did not reply.

"If there's nothing else, gentlemen?" von Lutzenberger asked, looked at the two of them, and then added, "Thank you for your time."

[TWO]

The Monteleone Hotel

New Orleans, Louisiana

0730 9 November 1942

Second Lieutenant Anthony J. Pelosi, CE, AUS, late of the 82nd Airborne Division, was shaving when he heard the knock at his hotel room door. He was taking special care. Today, officers of the U.S. Navy were going to teach him something about ships— and about blowing them up, or at least sinking them. He suspected they would know that he was an Army officer, even if he was in civilian clothing. All the same, he wanted to look like an officer and a gentleman.

He was still smarting about how he looked when he first arrived—no goddamned socks, and a goddamned zipper jacket, for Christ's sake! Especially when Sergeant Ettinger was wearing a suit that made him look like a banker. And Lieutenant Frade— after showing up at the railroad station in his cowboy suit— looked like an advertisement in Esquire magazine.

Tony, who was naked, wrapped a towel around his waist, then walked to the door and opened it. He stood behind it so no one would see him wearing only a towel.

"This is for you, Sir," a bellman said, and handed him a twine-wrapped paper package that looked like something you would get back from a Chinese laundry.

"Just a minute," Tony said, then went to the bed and slid his hand between the mattress and the box spring and pulled out his wallet. He took a dollar bill from the wallet and gave it to the bellman.

After he closed the door, he carried the package to the bed and sat down, making sure that he didn't sit on his new tweed sports coat and gray flannel pants that he had laid out to wear. Though it was not what he originally picked out, he liked the clothing more now than when he first bought it. Lieutenant Frade "suggested" then that he buy what he did. He was the commanding officer of the team, so Tony went along. Now he was glad he did.

For the first time, Tony saw a sheet of hotel notepaper stuck inside the twine on the package. He took it out and unfolded it:

Pelosi, put this stuff on, and meet me in the dining room at 7:45. A.

A.stood for Adams, one of the three mentors sent down from Virginia. Tony now understood that the word meant something like teacher or counselor; it was just like the OSS to use a word that nobody understood. Adams was somewhere in his thirties, a slight, bright-eyed man who had been an assistant professor of engineering at the University of Idaho. When Tony asked him how he'd wound up in the OSS, Adams replied, "That's not really any of your business, is it, Pelosi?"

Tony opened the drawer in the bedside table, took out his pocket-knife, cut the twine, and unwrapped the package. It contained a pair of blue dungarees, a canvas jacket with a corduroy collar, a navy-blue woolen turtleneck sweater, a woolen knit cap, long-john underwear, heavy woolen socks, and a pair of work shoes. Each item of clothing was marked somewhere with "USN." It was, Tony realized, the Navy equivalent of Army fatigue clothing.

And then he realized it was Navy enlisted men's work clothing. He'd heard somewhere that in the Navy, officers didn't wear work clothing, because it was below the dignity of a Navy officer to get his hands dirty.

How the hell am I going to look like an officer and a gentleman if I have to wear this Navy enlisted man's shit?

He didn't like what he saw in the mirror when he had put on the clothing. And when he walked into the Monteleone Hotel dining room in the Navy fatigues, he got a dirty look from the headwaiter.

No wonder! I look like I've been sent to unstop the fucking toilet, for Christ's sake, not sit down and have my breakfast.

He looked around the dining room and saw Adams sitting at a table with three sailors. There was a full lieutenant, a chief petty officer, and a bo'sun's mate first class. They were all wearing regular blue uniforms. Two tables away, he saw Lieutenant Frade with a couple of mentors. He had on a blue, brass-buttoned blazer, a crisp white shirt, and a striped necktie.

Lieutenant Frade saw him, smiled as if he thought Tony wearing a sailor's work uniform was the funniest thing he had seen all week, and winked at Tony and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Tony pretended he didn't see him and walked to Mr. Adams's table.

"Mr. Pelosi," Adams made the introductions, "this is Lieutenant Greene, Chief Norton, and Bo'sun Leech. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Pelosi."

The sailors looked at him with frank curiosity.

Lieutenant Greene shook his hand without speaking. Chief Norton said, "What do you say, Pelosi?" And Bo'sun Leech grunted and tried to squash his hand when he shook it.

There was little conversation at breakfast. Adams and the Navy men—all of whom were at least ten years older than he was, and all of whom, he was sure, thought he looked as funny as Lieutenant Frade did—had already eaten their breakfasts. They waited impatiently for him to order and then eat his.

Two vehicles were waiting outside: a Navy-gray truck, sort of a panel truck, but with windows and seats in the back, and Frade's Buick convertible. Frade and his mentors got into the Buick and drove off.

"Why don't you sit in the back, Pelosi?" Lieutenant Greene suggested.

Bo'sun Leech came in the back with him. Lieutenant Greene went behind the wheel, and Chief Norton got in the front beside him.

That pretty well sets up the pecking order, putting me on the bottom,Tony thought. I wonder if Lieutenant Greene knows I'm an officer.

They drove out of town, east, across a long, narrow two-lane bridge set on pilings. Tony saw signs saying they were on U.S. Highway 98.

Chief Norton turned around and looked at him.

"Adams said you know something about explosives, Pelosi. That right?"

I've probably forgotten more about explosives than you ever knew, pal!

"I know a little bit about explosives," Pelosi replied.

"You ever use explosives to cut steel?"

Not more than five or six hundred times.

"A couple of times."

"I generally found when I'm teaching somebody who has a little experience with explosives that the best way is to get him to forget what he thinks he knows and let me start from scratch. Think you could handle that?"

"Why not?"

"This isn't the first time we've done this," Chief Norton said. "Usually we have a lot more time, a couple of days more, anyway."

[THREE]

The Consulate of the Republic of Argentina

Suite 1103

The Bank of New Orleans Building

New Orleans, Louisiana

0900 10 November 1942

"Buenos dias," Clete said to the redhead in the office of the Argentine Consulate.

"Good morning," the redhead said in English. "Can I help you?"

She's not an Argentinean, Clete Frade realized, which surprised him. He'd assumed that anyone who worked in the Argentine Consulate would be an Argentinean. But when he considered that, he realized there was no reason that should be so. It was obviously cheaper to hire a local than bring someone up from Argentina. It reminded him that what he knew about consulates and embassies—and for that matter, Argentina—could be written inside a matchbook with a grease pencil.

"I've come to apply for visas," he said, and smiled at her. He set his briefcase on her desk, opened it, and took out the forms and handed them to her.

"There's two applications," she said.

"Well, the sad truth is that my friend, who's going with me, right now thinks he's about to die," Clete said with a smile. "He was out on Bourbon Street all night, and most of the morning, too. I hoped he wouldn't have to come himself."

"I'll have to ask Se?or Galle about that," she said. "Which one is he?"

"Pelosi," Clete said. "I'm Frade."

She examined Pelosi's visa application carefully.

"Seems to be all right," she said. "Do you have his passport?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Clete said, and handed it to her.

"I'll have to ask Se?or Galle about it," the redhead said.

She went farther into the office, and a minute or so later a well-dressed, smiling man in his late thirties or early forties came into the outer room.

"Good morning," he said. His English was very faintly accented. "Miss O'Rourke gives me to believe that Bourbon Street has claimed yet another victim. My name is Galle."

He offered his hand.

"Frade," Clete said, taking it. "Clete Frade."

"I'm pleased to meet you," Galle said, looking at him carefully.

That look,Clete thought, went beyond idle curiosity.

"May I ask why you're traveling to Argentina?" Galle asked as he picked up the visa applications.

"It's on the application, Se?or," Clete said, switching to Spanish. "Our company is opening an office in Buenos Aires."

"And your company is?" Galle asked, in English.

"Howell Petroleum," Clete said. "Actually a subsidiary. Howell Petroleum (Venezuela)."

"Oh, yes. I know them," Galle said. "And I see that your name is Howell. Is there a connection?"

"My grandfather founded the company."

"I'm not always this inquisitive," Galle said. "But we're cooperating with your government in a rather delicate area. It would seem that your government has discovered that a number of young men have decided they would much rather enjoy the delights of Buenos Aires than those of, say, Fort Benning."

"Really?"

"Our policy is that we inform young men of a certain age that while we would be pleased to grant them a visa to visit Argentina, there will be a delay of a week or so while we confer with your Department of Justice. A number of young men, upon hearing that, have decided to change their travel plans."

"Both Mr. Pelosi and I have done our service," Clete said.

"You would not be offended if I asked to see your discharge papers?" Galle asked.

"Right here in my briefcase," Clete said. "Mine and Se?or Pelosi's. And I do have my brand-new draft card, which shows my classification. Medically discharged."

"That should do it," Galle said, finally switching to Spanish himself. "You speak Spanish very well, Se?or."

"Thank you," Clete said.

After carefully examining the discharge documents and Clete's draft card, Galle handed them back to him with a smile.

"No offense, Se?or Frade?"

“Absolutely none. I hope you catch a couple of draft dodgers."

Galle bent over the desk and scrawled an initial on one of the visa applications:—Clete could not see which one—and then started to do the same thing on the other.

"Oh, this is interesting," Galle said, straightening and looking directly at Clete. "You're an Argentinean, Mr. Frade."

"No," Clete said. "I was born there, but I'm an American citizen. My mother was an American."

"Under our laws, you're an Argentinean; citizenship comes with birth in Argentina."

"Is that going to pose any problem?" Clete asked.

"No. But it's probably fortunate that you have done your military service. You were a Marine, I see?"

"That's right."

"We have, as you do, compulsory military service," Galle said. “And we, like you, have our share of young men who would rather not serve their country. If you hadn't done your service, then perhaps it could have been awkward. But since you have, I'm sure there will be no problem. But may I suggest you take your discharge documents with you? You'll probably never need them, but if the question came up somehow ..."

"Thank you for the advice," Clete said. "I will. And I'll tell Pelosi."

Galle put his initials on Clete's application and then on Pelosi's.

"Now, if you would be so kind as to give Miss O'Rourke twenty dollars—visas are ten dollars each—I think we can finish this up."

Clete handed the redhead the money. She opened a drawer in her desk and took from it a small metal box. It was unlocked. She put the money in a tray, then removed the tray. From the bottom of the box she took a rubber stamp and a stamp pad, and with great care stamped each of the passports. As she finished she handed them to Galle, who signed the visas with a flourish.

Then he returned the passports to Clete.

"Have a nice voyage. When did you say you were leaving?"

"In the next several days. Whenever we can get seats on Pan American."

"One final bit of advice," Galle said. "Take summer clothing. Our seasons are reversed, you know. It is now summer in Buenos Aires, and sometimes the weather, the humidity, you understand, is not very pleasant."

"Thank you," Clete said, putting out his hand. "Thank you for your courtesy and the advice."

"Have a good time in Buenos Aires," Galle said. "I wish I was going with you. You're not married, I gather?"

"No, Sir."

"I think what I miss most, here, are the women of Buenos Aires," Galle said, smiled, added, "Bon voyage," and walked away.

Thirty minutes later, Galle left his office, walked out of the business district and across Canal Street into the Vieux Carre, then went on to a building on St. Peter's Street. He let himself into a small apartment which he had rented at an exorbitant price under a name that was not his own. The landlord believed he was a Mexican-American named Lopez from San Antonio who visited New Orleans frequently on business—and to see a woman. Once a month, at least, Galle took pains to see that the landlord noticed him entering the apartment with a woman.

Galle doubted that the FBI or the New Orleans police were even aware of the apartment. And if they were, he doubted that they either tapped the telephone or intercepted his mail. To make sure, however, he sent mail to the apartment. When it arrived, he saw no indication that it was tampered with.

He had the operator connect him, station-to-station, with a number in Silver Spring, Maryland. He doubted the FBI knew of the existence of that apartment or that telephone number either, and he thought the odds were remote indeed that they had tapped that line.

He gave the woman who answered the names of Cletus Howell Frade and Anthony J. Pelosi, and asked her to inform the appropriate functionary that he had just issued visas for their residence in Argentina and that in his judgment they should be watched on their arrival to make sure they were indeed in Buenos Aires to open a local office of Howell Petroleum (Venezuela). As an afterthought, he asked the woman to add that Cletus Howell Frade had been born in Argentina, and that the security forces might be interested to learn who were his relatives, if any, in Argentina.

[FOUR]

Office of the Managing Director

Sociedad Mercantil de Importaci?n de Productos Petroliferos

21st Floor, Edificio Kavanagh

Calle Florida 1065

Buenos Aires, Argentina

0930 18 November 1942

Enrico Mallin, the Managing Director of SMIPP (pronounced "smeep"), was six feet two inches tall, weighed one hundred ninety-five pounds, had a full head of dark-brown hair, a full, immaculately trimmed mustache, and was forty-two years old. He was educated at the Belgrano Day School, operated by two English expatriate brothers named Green; the University of Buenos Aires; and the London School of Economics. After that, he embarked on what he referred to as "postgraduate schooling" in the United States. In 1938 he spent six months in Louisiana, Oklahoma, and Texas learning what he could about the operation of the American petroleum industry. There was no question in his mind that the Americans knew more about doing business imaginatively, efficiently, and profitably than anyone else, including the Dutch Shell people and British Petroleum, who were supposed to be the best in the world.

He spent a month actually working as a roughneck on a rig in East Texas, and wound up in Tulsa, learning something about seismological data. Argentina wasn't quite ready to develop its own production . . .Although there was certainly oil in the country, it was not now economically feasible to search for it, much less produce it. But someday these things would change, and when they did, Mallin would be ready.

He also returned from the United States with a number of "barbaric Yankee habits," as his wife (n?e Pamela Holworth-Talley, whom he met at the Victoria and Albert Hall in London when she was nineteen and he was twenty-two) only half jokingly referred to them. In the States, for instance, he acquired a taste for sour-mash bourbon whiskey, jalapeno peppers, chili con carne (which he insisted on not only making himself, but forcing upon civilized people), and the really outrageous habit of rising in the middle of the night to go to work.

In the middle of the night—which, so far as Pamela was concerned, was somewhere between five-thirty and quarter to six in the morning—Enrico (whom Pamela called "Henry") would rise quietly from their bed in the master's suite of the large, Italian-style mansion on the corner of Calle Arcos and Virrey del Pino in Belgrano. He would then have a quick shower and a shave, dress, back his Rolls-Royce drop-head coupe out of the garage, exchange an early-morning wave with the policeman on guard at the Mexican Ambassador's house across the street, and drive downtown to the Edificio Kavanagh. The Kavanagh Building, built in 1937 (in the style now called Art Deco), was in 1942 Buenos Aires' first and only skyscraper.

Sometimes, if he was hungry, or for other good reasons, he would drive the drop-head Rolls into the courtyard of the apartment building at 2910 Avenue Canning in Palermo, where he maintained an apartment (4D; two bedrooms, a sitting room, and a kitchen with a nice view of the gardens) for Teresa, his twenty-one-year-old mistress. Teresa could be counted on to provide him with coffee or whatever else he needed. But most of the time he drove directly downtown to the Edificio Kavanagh.

There he would turn into the driveway to the underground parking garage, sound the horn, and wait until the uniformed attendant emerged from his cubicle and opened the gate. He would roll down the window and hand the attendant a coin. The attendant would touch the brim of his cap, smile, and murmur, "Gracias, Se?or Mallin."

Enrico would have much preferred to deal with the attendant on a monthly basis. That way he would find the gate already open when he arrived, and his secretary could deliver an envelope to the attendant once a month. The arrangement would save him at least a minute a day, but this was Argentina.

He would then park the Rolls in space number one of the seven reserved near the elevator for employees of Sociedad Mercantil de Importaci?n de Productos Petroliferos, enter the elevator, exchange greetings with the operator, and ride to the twenty-first floor. Although office hours did not begin until nine, and the first employees would not begin to arrive until half past eight, once he reached his offices, one of the ornately carved mahogany double doors would be open, waiting for him.

The night man worked for Sociedad Mercantil de Importaci?n de Productos Petroliferos, not for the Edificio Kavanagh. He could be counted on to have the door open in anticipation of Mallin's arrival. He could also be counted on to have a kettle of water simmering in the small kitchen in Se?or Mallin's private office, and to have checked with the Communications Department to make sure that all communications Se?or Mallin would possibly be interested in were neatly laid out on the conference table in Se?or Mallin’s office.

Enrico would brew his own tea (Hornyman's Special) in a china teapot, remove his jacket and loosen his tie while he was waiting for it to steep, and then begin his day by reading the material from the Communications Department.

Very little of this was addressed to him personally. And very little of what he read required any action on his part. He made the odd note now and again to query one of his Division Chiefs, but the basic purpose of his spending an hour or two reading the communications was simply to get an idea of what was going on.

One piece of wisdom he brought home from America—an insight that was ignored at the London School of Economics—was the leadership philosophy he acquired from a marvelous curmudgeonly character of an American oilman, Cletus Marcus Howell. Howell told him—actually proclaimed—that if you have to look over the shoulder of the people you've hired to make sure they do what you tell them to do, you've hired the wrong people.

The philosophy was simplistic, of course, but in practice it worked. And in the case of Cletus Marcus Howell, in that wonderful American expression, he put his money where his mouth was in his relationship with Sociedad Mercantil de Importaci?n de Productos Petroliferos. SMIPP had represented both Howell Petroleum and Howell Petroleum (Venezuela) in Argentina for many years. There were twice-annual visits (annual now, because of the war) by Howell's accountants to have a look at the books. But aside from that, Howell (or his people) rarely asked questions and never offered any criticism of the way Mallin was running things.

They offered, of course, constructive suggestions, but these were precisely that: both constructive and suggestions. Generally speaking, when other SMIPP clients offered "constructive suggestions," they were actually criticizing. And "suggestions" was a euphemism for orders.

Over the years, Mallin had taken more care handling the Howell accounts than any others, simply because he knew he had a free rein, and it would have been terribly awkward and embarrassing if he was caught doing something unwise. Or stupid. Mallin took a little private pleasure in knowing that in his case, Cletus Marcus Howell was sure he had hired the right man.

Mallin almost casually glanced at the material laid out on his conference table, then poured himself a cup of tea, adding sugar and lemon. He then went to the window and slowly sipped it, gazing out at the boats on the River Plate as he did. As long as the office was his (he inherited it, so to speak, on his father's death three years before), the view fascinated, almost hypnotized, him. He privately acknowledged that looking out the window was one of the reasons he came to the office so early. If others wanted to believe he spent every moment reading the mail, no harm was done.

Now that he was here, he regretted not stopping in to have a coffee with Teresa. There was something wonderfully erotic about letting himself into her apartment, walking quietly to the bedroom, and watching her sleeping. Especially now, in the summer, when he could often find her without a sheet covering her, and with a flimsy nightdress more often than not riding high on her legs. When she was sleeping, there was a strange and entirely delightful warmth about her, and a slight musky smell. Teresa kept an apple on her bedside table. She wouldn't let him kiss her on the mouth until she'd taken a bite or two. Then her mouth tasted of apples.

Tomorrow,Mallin decided. I will visit Teresa tomorrow.

He turned from the window and went to his desk and consulted his schedule for the week. He had an appointment at eleven o'clock tomorrow.

There will be time for Teresa before I have to meet with Schneider. And if 1 run a little late, Schneider will just have to wait.

He glanced at the paper spread out on the conference table and sighed.

I better stop thinking about Teresa and do my reading. What the devil is that? A cable. I don't remember seeing that before. I've told that idiot again and again to put the cables on top!

He walked around his desk to the conference table and picked up a pale-pink envelope and tore it open.

WESTERN UNION

NEW ORLEANS

1115AM NOV 19 1942

FROM HOWELL PETROLEUM NEW ORLEANS

VIA MACKAY RADIO

ENRICO MALLIN

SMIPP

KAVANAGH BUILDING

CALLE FLORIDA 165

BUENOS AIRES ARGENTINA

FOR REASONS MY GRANDSON WILL EXPLAIN IN PERSON HOWELL VENEZUELA OPENING BUENOS AIRES

OFFICE STOP CLETUS HOWELL FRADE AND ANTHONY J PELOSI COMMA TANK FARM ENGINEER COMMA

DEPARTING MIAMI PANAMERICAN FLIGHT ONE SEVEN ONE NOVEMBER TWENTY STOP APPRECIATE YOUR

ARRANGING HOTEL ETCETERA UNTIL PERMANENT ARRANGEMENTS CAN BE MADE STOP REGARDS CLETUS

MARCUS HOWELL END

The old man is opening a Buenos Aires office? And sending his grandson down here to do it? What in the devil is that all about?

The first thing that came to his mind was that SMIPP had somehow failed to meet the old man's expectations. Had some thing gone wrong?... He couldn't imagine what...But was he about to lose Howell Petroleum as a client?

Almost immediately, he realized that couldn't possibly be the case. Their relatively simple business relationship had gone on long enough to work effortlessly; all the little problems that inevitably occur had been resolved.

In their own bottoms, or hired bottoms, Howell (Venezuela) shipped Venezuela crude to Buenos Aires. This was most often (and now almost always, with the war) off-loaded directly into the tanks of the refinery that was to process it. Since there was an import tax, the government determined precisely how much crude there was. The government inspectors were kept honest during off-loading by the presence of representatives of the refiner (who wanted to make sure the inspectors had not been paid by SMIPP to report a greater tonnage than was the case) and of SMIPP (who wanted to make sure the inspectors had not been paid off by the refiner to report the off-loading of a lesser amount of crude than was the case).

Within forty-eight hours of off-loading, the refiners paid SMIPP for the crude. And within twenty-four hours of receipt of their check, SMIPP paid into Howell (Venezuela)'s account at the Bank of Boston the amount they were due: gross receipts less taxes, stevedoring, and, of course, SMIPP's commission.

Handling of Refined Products (cased motor oil and lubricants) from Howell Petroleum (which Mallin thought of as Howell USA) was a bit more complicated. But this was still done in much the same way. There was, of course, a greater problem with pilferage: Refined products were shipped as regular cargo aboard freighters that were not owned or controlled by Howell, and the crews of these freighters had discovered that oil products floated (even in cans and cases), and that some of the operators of boats on the River Plate would make gifts to seamen in proportion to the number of cases of refined products they found bobbing around in the river.

But over the years, even that problem had been minimized by the payment of bonuses to ship's masters and crews for their special care of Howell Refined Products. It was impossible, of course, to keep a half-dozen cases of motor oil from falling over the side when a boat operated by one's wife's cousin showed up - to wave hello. But large-scale theft was really a thing of the past.

After the Refined Products were counted by a government inspector to make sure the government took its tax bite, they were unloaded into bonded warehouses, with a SMIPP representative watching. And when they were sold by SMIPP, it was on a Collect On Delivery basis at the bonded warehouses. A SMIPP representative was there to collect the check before he authorized release of the merchandise. Within twenty-four hours, SMIPP deposited a check to Howell USA's account at the Bank of Boston representing the total amount the wholesaler had paid, less taxes, stevedoring, SMIPP's commission, and the value of goods spoiled in transport.

Mallin generally succeeded in keeping the value of goods spoiled in transport (including goods actually damaged, say, when a cargo net ripped; goods "fallen" overboard; and bonuses paid to ship's crews) below one point five percent of net to Howell.

On reflection, Enrico could not imagine anything in his operation that could displease the old man.

So what is this all about? And why the grandson? He's nothing but a boy!

Mallin had met the grandson. In 1938. He was then a student in New Orleans, a tall, rather well-set-up young man who suffered from acne. The old man, Mallin recalled, doted on him. The boy's mother was dead, and the father had vanished when the boy was an infant (Mallin did not know the man's name).

If the boy was then— what, seventeen, eighteen years old?— what is he now? Twenty-one or twenty-two; twenty-three at most. If you are dissatisfied with someone, you don't send a twenty-odd-year-old to conduct an investigation.

Maybe that was why the other expert was coming. But if that was the case, why send the boy?

As a matter of courtesy to me? Highly unlikely. The old man is the antithesis of subtle.

Then the real reason flashed in his mind:

The war. The bloody damned war.' If the boy is twenty-odd, he's liable to be called up for service. Young men are killed in wars. Even Argentineans. And we're not even in this war. Humberto Valdez Duarte's boy was killed— it was inLa Naci?n— at Stalingrad, of all places.

The old man dotes on the boy. The mother is dead and the father a scoundrel. So the boy had been raised by the old man, and an aunt and uncle in Texas.

That's what this is all about. The old man doesn't want him killed in the war. So he's arranged to send him out of the country. He's a powerful man; he's arranged for him to be declared essential to Howell Petroleum. Sending him to Buenos Aires will keep him out of sight.

But who is the other fellow, Pelosi, coming with him?

We'll just have to wait and see.

He walked back to his desk, picked up a pen, and scrawled a note to his secretary, asking her (a) to please make reservations for an American gentleman, Se?or Pelosi, at either the Alvear Palace or the Plaza, for at least a week, starting November twenty-first (a small suite, to be billed to the SMIPP account); (b) to please remind him to inform his wife that they would be entertaining the young grandson of Cletus Marcus Howell for an indefinite period beginning November twenty-first; and (c) to please contact Schneider to ask if their meeting tomorrow could be rescheduled for later in the day; two-thirty or three, if possible, but no earlier than one-thirty.

[FIVE]

Aboard "The Ciudad de Rio de Janeiro"

(Pan American Airlines Flight 171)

1815 21 November 1942

One of the stewards (Clete Frade had serious doubts about his masculinity) came through the cabin, knelt in the aisle by each quartet of seats, and announced they were preparing to land in Buenos Aires. They should be on the ground—or, titter, on the water—in about fifteen minutes.

In fact, Clete's aviator's seat-of-the-pants instincts had already told him they'd been letting down slowly for about fifteen minutes. He had noticed a slight change in the roar of the Martin 156's quadruple thousand-horsepower engines, and a just barely perceptible change in attitude. Without taking it out of Autopilot, the pilot had just touched the trim control, lowering the nose maybe half a degree.

Clete was slept out and bored, so he had been doing his own dead-reckoning navigation since they'd left Rio de Janeiro. He used his Marine Corps-issue Hamilton chronograph and several sheets of the notepaper engraved "In Flight—Pan American Airways." Pan American had provided the paper—along with a good deal else—for the comfort of its passengers. He could only guess at the winds aloft, of course, but putting them at zero for his calculations, it was time to arrive in Buenos Aires.

He'd thought quite a bit about the watch, starting with the amusing notion that a diligent Marine Corps supply officer was almost certainly at this very moment trying to run down First Lieutenant Frade, USMCR, to make him either turn it back in or sign the appropriate form so the cost thereof could be deducted from his pay.

He got a strange feeling sitting in the softly upholstered seat of the Martin (every time they landed—first at Caracas, Venezuela, and then at Belem and Rio de Janeiro in Brazil—the crisp linen head cloths of the seats were replaced, and the ashtrays emptied) computing time and distance with the same watch he'd used when he had to wonder if he had enough gas to bring his Grumman Wildcat back to Midway or Henderson. Same identical watch, except for the strap. He replaced the old, mold-soaked strap with a new leather band in New Orleans.

It occurred to him that in his new role as a spy/saboteur/secret agent, he probably should put the watch away and wear one more appropriate to an oil industry executive.

That man is obviously a secret agent. You can tell by his watch!

But he had a strange, strong emotional reluctance to take it off. In a sense, the Hamilton and the Half Wellington boots he was wearing were his last connection with VMF-229, with Henderson and Guadalcanal, with the Corps, with Francis Xavier Sullivan. It was a connection he didn't want to break.

From the beginning in the hotel room in Los Angeles, he'd had doubts about the whole OSS operation. These had not only not diminished, they had grown more defined. He found it difficult to believe that the United States of America—faced with the problem that German submarines were being replenished by "neutral" freighters in Argentina—could not come up with a better solution than sending a fighter pilot, an immigrant electrical engineer, and a none-too-bright Italian boy from Chicago who was allegedly a demolitions expert to deal with it.

If General Frade had been in charge, he would have dispatched several Boeing B-17 bombers to Brazil with orders to bomb any suspicious-looking ship; and if the Argentineans didn't like it, fuck 'em. What were they going to do, declare war on the United States and bomb Miami? If the OSS knew about the ship, they would certainly know where it was. And it shouldn't be too hard to pass that information on to the bomber people.

On the other hand, it was also very true that the B-17s, the only aircraft Clete knew of with range enough to bomb Buenos Aires from a base in Brazil, weren't the invincible flying fortresses the Army Air Corps was advertising. B-17s had bravely gone out day after day from Midway and Henderson and Espiritu Santo to bomb Japanese ships; and so far as Clete knew, they hadn't been able to hit one of them.

They'd lost a bunch of B-17s—either to Japanese fighters, pilot (or navigator) error, or lousy maintenance. At least some of the Seventeen pilots must have known they were pissing into the wind, but they kept their mouths shut and tried to do what was asked of them, because that was the way things are in a war.

And that's how he felt about blowing up "neutral" freighters in Argentina. He would give it a shot—and for that matter, even try to make friends with his father—because that was what he had been ordered to do. Phony discharge and draft card and civilian clothing aside, he was still a serving Marine Officer. He'd taken an oath to "faithfully execute the orders of those officers appointed him"; and simply because orders like these weren't what he expected to get didn't release him from that oath.

All he could do was hope that "faithfully executing" his orders wasn't going to get himself—and Pelosi and Ettinger—killed in the process. And considering that the sum total of his knowledge about how to be a successful secret agent could be written inside a matchbook with a crayon—despite the mind-numbing, day-and-night, relentless efforts of the mentors in New Orleans—getting killed did not seem an unlikely possibility.

Ettinger seemed both smart and tough. Even telling his mother that he was going to Argentina now seemed less stupid than it did when Clete first heard it and ate him out about it. He had to tell her something, obviously, and in the absence of a furnished cover story—the OSS left things out, forgot things ... this was obviously not a comforting thought—the one he came up with was a pretty good one. And someone who had lost his family to Hitler's goons didn't have to be reminded that the Germans were the bad guys.

Pelosi worried him more. Sure he knew his stuff, incredibly. ... Lieutenant Greene, the Navy Salvage officer, gave Pelosi practice setting charges on a ship by giving him a to-be-scrapped World War One destroyer to blow up. Greene came back from Mississippi damned near glowing with tales of his expertise. But Pelosi was a Second Lieutenant, a kid, who thought war was like they showed it in Alan Ladd and Errol Flynn movies. Based on his own recent experience in the role, Clete considered himself an expert about the stupidity of second lieutenants. And he was thus afraid that Pelosi would try to do something heroic—an excellent way to get yourself and the people with you killed.

When the opportunity presented itself—the mentors saw to it there was no time for that in New Orleans—he intended to have a long talk with Pelosi on the theme that discretion is often the better part of valor.

The mentors also ruined his plans to correct what was now a near-terMi?al case of Lackanookie. Finding a cure for that was the one thing he could reasonably expect to find in Buenos Aires. Three of their mentors had been there. They swore to a man that the women were both lovely and (sometimes) willing.

He remembered clearly very few of the nine million facts about Buenos Aires that they threw at him. But one of those few concerned Four Hour Hotels. Four Hour Hotels were set up for the express purpose of catering to unmarried people who wished to spend four hours alone together in a horizontal position without their clothes. That seemed to be a little too good to be true, but he was going to do his best to find out for himself.

Another steward came down the aisle, carrying a tray of glasses and a bottle of champagne wrapped in a napkin.

Clete nudged Pelosi, who was dozing in the seat beside him, waking him, and noting with surprise how his face was astonishingly dark with whiskers. Pan American had provided razors, but they both chose not to use them. Since it was unlikely either of them was going to be kissed on board, shaves could wait until they got to Buenos Aires.

Pelosi had a questioning look. And a hint of annoyance, as well.

"Champagne," Clete said.

"What are we celebrating?"

"Our arrival."

"Champagne, gentlemen?" the steward asked as he reached them.

"Thank you ever so much, and you can leave the bottle," Clete said.

The Martin set down into choppy water with a series of crashes. Water sprayed over the windows, so the seaplane was nearly stopped before Clete could look past Pelosi and see outside. The water was dirty. Or at least brown.

The seaplane turned, and the pilot shut down its engines. Punctuated only by the clangs of cooling metal and the lapping of water against the hull, the quiet felt strange. Then a string of boats appeared: The first four were outsize motorboats, with brightly varnished woodwork. And after them, in line, came four work boats, to take off the luggage and cargo. Clete had seen them load mailbags aboard in Miami and in Rio de Janeiro.

He wondered idly if there was other cargo. It must cost a fortune to ship something air express, if that's what it's called. The bill for our tickets was more than the Marine Corps is paying me by the year as a first lieutenant on flight status.

There was a flurry in the cabin as the passengers—thirty-six of them, thirty-four of them male, he had counted—started getting ready to get off. Pelosi saw them too, and began to get up.

Clete waved him back into his seat, and pointed out the window. The first of the passenger boats was still far from the Martin. No one would be getting off in the next couple of minutes.

Finally, they opened the door, and there was the smell of fresh air. And it was warm. The temperature rose quickly. He was sweating by the time it was their turn to pass through the hatch and step onto what looked like a stubby second wing, and from that down to one of the powerboats.

The ride to shore cooled them off.

It's no hotter here than it was in Miami,Clete decided. Maybe a little more humid.

Just inside the terMi?al building he spotted a tall, brown-haired man with a massive mustache. The other man spotted him at the same moment.

Enrico Mallin. I know him. I told the old man I didn't remember him, but now that I see him, I do.

I remember something else about you, too, you sonofabitch! You made a pass at— what the hell was her name? Beth Fogarty— when I took old stand-up nipples Beth by the old man's house. What was that, the legendary hot-blooded Latin? If it wears a skirt, have a go at it, even if it's half your age?

Mallin gently but unmistakably pushed a uniformed man— probably customs—aside and walked up to Clete.

"Cletus, my young friend, how good it is to see you again!" he said, shaking Clete's hand and wrapping his arm around his shoulders.

"It's good to see you too, Enrico."

Clete sensed a certain stiffness at that, and realized that Enrico the Horny expected to be called "Mister."

Fuck you, Enrico, Little Cletus has grown up.

"And your friend? Associate?" Mallin asked.

"A little of both, actually," Clete said. "Tony Pelosi, this is Mr. Enrico Mallin."

"Welcome to Argentina," Mallin said as he shook their hands. "I am very pleased to meet you both. Shall we go?"

"What about the luggage?" Clete asked.

"My chauffeur is here with the wagon,” Mallin said. "He will take care of the luggage."

"A wagon?" Tony blurted.

“A Ford," Mallin said, smiling condescendingly. “By and large, we have very few horse-drawn wagons on the streets these days.”

That was a cheap shot, Enrico. What was that for? To pay me back for not calling you "Mister"?

"We can just walk out of here?" Clete asked. "What about Immigration?"

"Right this way," Mallin said. "We'll need your passports."

He led them to an unmarked door, pushed it open without knocking, and waved them inside ahead of him.

A middle-aged man wearing a better-quality uniform than the man outside gave them a look of indignation—who the hell are you to barge into my office?—but then he noticed Mallin. He stood up, smiled, and offered his hand.

"These are my friends," Mallin said.

"Welcome to Argentina," the man said in heavily accented English, and shook hands with them in turn. "Please, your documents?”

He took a rubber stamp and an ink pad from his desk, very carefully stamped the passports, signed his name carefully, handed the passports back, and shook hands with each of them again.

"I so very much appreciate your courtesy, Inspector," Mallin said.

"I am happy to be of service, Se?or Mallin," the inspector said, and bowed them through a door behind his desk. They found themselves in a short corridor, and then came to another door, this one leading to the street, where a dark-green Rolls-Royce convertible and a 1941 Ford Super Deluxe station wagon were parked at the curb.

A short, plump man in gray chauffeur's livery smiled and touched the brim of his cap.

"If you will be so kind as to give Ram6n your baggage checks, he will see to the luggage," Mallin said.

The baggage checks were handed over, and then Mallin opened the passenger door of the Rolls.

"I am so sorry that my home is simply not large enough to receive you both as my guests," he said. "I have taken the liberty to arrange for Se?or Pelosi accommodations in the Alvear Palace Hotel, which I hope, Se?or Pelosi, you will find satisfactory until other arrangements can be made. Cletus will stay with us; he's nearly—how do they say it in Texas?—kin."

"Cousin Enrico," Clete said, smiling.

Mallin looked at him, and after a moment, smiled.

Chapter Seven

[ONE]

Buenos Aires, Argentina

2005 21 November 1942

It was a fifteen-minute drive to the hotel—on, so far as Clete was concerned, the wrong side of the road; like the Australians the Argentines drove on the left (and would continue to do so until 1944). Mallin took them through a park, where people in proper equestrian clothing were riding fine-looking horses on bridle paths, and then down wide, tree-lined avenues. A statue of an ornately uniformed man on horseback seemed to stand at every major intersection.

Clete realized immediately that Buenos Aires was not the kind of place he'd expected. He had assumed that Argentina would be something like Mexico, and Buenos Aires something like Mexico City. It was not. It was unlike any city he had ever seen before.

They came to a park in which enormous banyan trees shaded neat walkways, and a moment later pulled off the street into the entrance of a hotel. A polished brass sign read:Alvear Palace Hotel.

A doorman in a top hat and a brass-buttoned linen coat which reached almost to his ankles walked quickly to the car and opened the passenger-side door.

Mallin stepped out of the car and held the seat back forward so that Pelosi could climb out of the backseat.

"I think you will find the Alvear comfortable, Mr. Pelosi," Mallin said, "and I would suppose that after your long flight, you greatly need a good night's sleep. I apologize again for not being able to take you into my home...."

"This is really something," Pelosi said. "Like the Drake in Chicago."

It looks like the Adolphus,Clete thought, recalling the Dallas landmark. Pre-World War I polished brass and marble elegance.

"I will go in with you," Mallin said, "to make sure that everything is satisfactory."

A bellboy (a boy, Clete thought, he's not a day over twelve or thirteen) spun a revolving door for them, and they entered the lobby.

"This is Argentina," Mallin said. "It is unfortunately required to give your passport to the management. I thought perhaps you'd like a coffee, or something stronger..."

"Coffee would be fine," Clete said. "Or maybe a beer."

Mallin gave him another strained smile, and went on, "... while I take care of that for you. You'll find a bar by the elevators."

Mallin gestured for them to precede him, and they entered the bar. The headwaiter greeted Mallin by name and escorted them to a table.

"My American friends," Mallin announced, "will have something to drink while I take care of Mr. Pelosi's registration." He nodded in the general direction of Tony Pelosi.

"You will have to excuse, gentlemen, my English is not so fine," the headwaiter said.

"I'll have a beer, please," Clete said in Spanish, "but my first priority is finding the men's room."

"Ah, you speak Spanish," the headwaiter said in Spanish. "If you will cross to the door beside the elevator, the gentlemen's facility is one floor down."

"And perfectly," Mallin said. "I'd forgotten you spoke Spanish."

"But I don't know the word for that," Clete said in English, inclining his head in the direction of the bar, where a stunningly beautiful woman in a revealing linen dress was beaming at a man at least twice her age.

"The word for that is Mi?a," Mallin said. "They are one of the many treasures of Buenos Aires."

"Very nice!" Tony Pelosi said, with admiration.

"Expensive, no doubt?" Clete said.

"Yes, but not in the way... They are not... how does one say? 'Ladies of the evening.' "

"I think, Mr. Pelosi," Clete said, "that in time I could come to like Buenos Aires."

"I like it already," Pelosi said, looking at the Mi?a.

"I will see about your registration," Mallin said, and walked back through the lobby toward the reception desk.

Following the maitre d'hotel's directions, Clete crossed the lobby and started down a wide, curving, marble staircase. Halfway down, he encountered another young woman, just as stunning as the one in the bar. He smiled at her. She averted her eyes, ladylike, but he thought he saw a small smile curve her full lips. To hell with the OSS! My priorities have just changed. First I will get laid, and then I will play Alan Ladd and lead my brave band of men to blow up the Nazi ship.

[TWO]

23 Calle Arcos Belgrano,

Buenos Aires

2105 21 November 1942

"I hope your friend will be able to fend for himself tonight," Enrico Mallin said as they sat with the Rolls' s nose against his garage door, waiting for it to open.

"He's a big boy," Clete replied, and then chuckled. "He'll most likely have a quick shower and then spend the rest of the evening in the hotel bar, hoping another Mi?a will come in."

"Interesting young man," Mallin said. "He's from Chicago, you said?"

"That's right."

"That seems a long way from Howell Petroleum in Louisiana."

"It is. But if you're asking how he came to work for Howell, I'm just one of the hired hands, and I don't know."

One of the double doors to the garage opened inward, and then the other. An old man in a blue denim jacket smiled at them as they drove past. Two other cars were in the garage; after a moment Clete identified one of them. He remembered it because the name amused him—a Jaguar saloon. There was also a small van withleyland on its grille. He had never seen a van like that, or heard of a Leyland. He did the arithmetic. Counting the station wagon, that made four cars.

The old man told me— in case Mallin became difficult— not to forget that he, and his father before him, have made a good deal of money out of Howell Petroleum, and to deal with him accordingly.

"I hope you don't mind coming into the house via the garage," Enrico Mallin said. "I hate to leave the car in front. I don't trust the old man to park it for me."

"Don't be silly," Clete said. "I'm flattered that you're having me in the house at all. I'm afraid I'm imposing."

A narrow, steep, and dark staircase led from the garage to a butler's pantry. A woman was waiting there for them.

"Welcome to our home, Mr. Frade," Pamela Mallin said. She was a tall, slim woman in a linen dress with a single strand of pearls and a simple gold wedding ring. "And forgive my husband for bringing you through the basement. I'm Se?ora de Mallin, but I do hope you'll call me Pamela."

Clete had always found English women attractive, and he decided that this one was ten degrees above the average: She wore her pale-blond hair parted in the middle and had startlingly blue eyes and a marvelous complexion.

"I'll call you Pamela if you call me Clete. And thank you for having me in your home. It's unexpected."

"It gives us much pleasure," Mallin said, and went on: "I suggest we give Clete a chance to freshen up—he's been on the airplane for thirty-six hours, at least—and then we can have a little chat over a cocktail before dinner."

"Ramon called," Pamela replied, with a look of disappointment on her face. "There was some trouble with the luggage. The officials, not only the customs people, were going through everybody's luggage dirty sock by dirty sock. He said they were obviously looking for something."

"He should have known enough to see Inspector Nore," Mallin said, annoyed. "When did he call?"

"About ten minutes ago. He wanted to know whether you wanted him to go to the Alvear first, or here."

"And you told him the Alvear, right?" Mallin asked, not pleasantly.

"In the absence of instructions to the contrary," Pamela replied, with a strained smile, "I thought that was the thing to do."

Mallin flashed a smile.

"Well, then," he said, "we can have a little chat now, and wait for your luggage, Clete. Sorry about this."

"Don't be silly," Clete said.

They followed her out of the butler's pantry through a dining room, where an enormous table was already set with five places, and then across a foyer to double doors, behind which was a sitting room. One wall was filled with books.

Pamela arranged herself gracefully on a dark-brown leather couch, then reached to a side table and pressed a button.

"Perhaps it would be easier if you told me what'd you'd like," she said. "Alberto's English is not as good as it could be. I am permitted to offer you a drink? Henry—perhaps I shouldn't say this—used the word 'boy.' "

In Spanish, Clete said, "A weak one. I had champagne on the plane, and a beer at the hotel. And a glass of water first, please? The airplane dehydrated me."

"He also didn't tell me that you spoke Spanish," Pamela said. "I'm disappointed; I looked forward to having someone in the house who speaks English."

Clete switched to English: "I don't speak English, but if you're able to put up with my American ..."

"Beggars can't be choosers, can they?" she asked with a laugh.

A middle-aged male servant in a linen jacket appeared at the double doors, then walked into the room.

"Alberto, this is Mr. Frade, who will be staying with us. He speaks Spanish, but you are to speak Spanish with him only in an emergency. You understand? I am determined that you improve your English."

"S?, Se?ora," he said.

"Mr. Frade will have first an agua con gas and then a scotch with a little water and ice; Mr. Mallin will have... what, Henry?"

"Scotch is fine."

"... and if you have opened the dinner wine, I will have a Malbec. We are going to have a Malbec?"

"S?, Se?ora," he said, and half backed out of the room.

Pamela turned to Clete.

"I believe polite custom requires me to ask, 'How was your flight?' "

"Very long," Clete said.

She laughed dutifully. "And now you can't get the authorities to release your luggage. I wonder what that was all about."

So do I. Am I already a paranoid secret agent, wondering why they were searching our luggage?

"What I'm wondering," Mallin said, "is what brings you to Argentina. Would it be rude of me to ask?"

"No, of course not. Actually, it's pretty silly. There are apparently paranoid people in our government who suspect that both crude from Venezuela and refined product from the States is being diverted to the Germans or the Italians."

"That's absurd!" Mallin flared.

"So my grandfather said," Clete replied. "But after extensive negotiations with the government, a solution was reached. If representatives of Howell, American representatives, were actually present in Argentina to more or less swear that our product is in fact staying in Argentina, the government would be satisfied. And I was chosen to come for several reasons—for one, my middle name is Howell; for another, I was recently discharged from the service and needed a job."

"Oh, you were in the service?" Pamela asked. "Which one?"

"I would like to know where the idea started that SMIPP could be involved with something like that," Mallin said indignantly.

"The Marine Corps, briefly," Clete said.

"And you were released?" Pamela asked. "Or shouldn't I have asked?"

"I was to be trained as a pilot," Clete said. "At the final physical, they found out that I have a heart murmur. Pilots—for that matter, Marines—cannot have heart murmurs."

That story came from Washington, with Adams the mentor. At one point Clete asked Adams why he had to deny that he was a pilot who had seen active service (at one point, Adams had told him that the best cover story was one which comes close to the truth, and which only alters or invents those facts that have a bearing on the deception). Adams replied that if Clete had a physical defect, his release from the service would be more credible than if he had actually become a Marine aviator. Clete didn't see the reasoning then or now, but Adams was supposed to be the expert in that sort of thing.

He was surprised at how easily he was able to tell both fabrications. He had previously thought of himself as a more-than-honest man who would have difficulty lying. That obviously wasn't the case.

Am I a natural-born liar, or can I do it now because this whole business is so unreal, like a game? Will I be able to lie as easily when it is important?

Or am I missing the point here and forgetting that these lies are important?

Alberto returned, bearing a silver tray on which were a crystal bottle with a silver "Scotch" tag hanging from its neck; a wine bottle; a silver bowl full of ice; a crystal water pitcher; a wineglass; and two large, squat crystal glasses. He made quite a ceremony of preparing the drinks, first pouring a sip of wine in the wineglass, then offering it—plus the cork, held in his palm—to Pamela for her approval.

She sniffed the cork, smiled, looked at Clete, said, "I think you will like our wines," and then sipped her wine. "That's fine, Alberto."

He filled her glass; then, with tongs, he added an ice cube to a crystal glass, and asked Clete, "Is sufficient, Sir?"

They were not large cubes.

"Two more, please," Clete said.

Then Alberto took what looked like a silver shot glass with a handle, held it carefully over the glass, filled it with scotch to the brim—and perilously over the brim—and only then dumped it. Then he picked up the water pitcher and, looking at Clete for orders to stop, added water. When Clete held up his hand, he stopped pouring and stirred the drink with a silver mixing stick.

If I drink all of that, I'll be on my knees.

"Gracias, Alberto."

Alberto repeated the ritual for Enrico Mallin. After Alberto placed the tray on a table and left the room, Mallin raised his glass.

"Welcome to our home, Clete," he said. "And to Argentina. May your visit be long and pleasant."

"Hear, hear," Pamela said.

"Thank you," Clete said, and took a sip. The drink was even stronger than he expected.

You will limit yourself to half of this, Clete, my boy. You had champagne on the airplane, a beer in the hotel, now this; and there is going to be wine for dinner, and you don't want to make an ass of yourself in front of these nice people.

The door opened again.

What now? Hors d'oeuvres?

He turned to see.

"Sorry, Mommy," the Virgin Princess said, "I didn't know you had a guest."

She looked to be about nineteen, as old as his "sister" Beth, and she was standing just inside the doorway. She spoke with Pamela Mallin's delightful British accent. She was wearing tennis clothes: a very brief skirt which showed most of her magnificent legs, a thin white blouse that pleasingly contained her absolutely perfect bosom, white socks, and tennis shoes. She carried two tennis racquets in covers under one arm, and held a red leather bag with the other hand. Her hair was long and light brown (prob ably shoulder length, Clete decided), swept up loosely and quite attractively at the back of her head. She had a wonderful innocence in her look and manner (innocent... but by no means childlike), yet she was confident too. Virgin and Princess.

"Come in, darling," Pamela said, "and say hello to Mr. Frade. He's an old friend of Daddy's; he will be staying with us."

The Virgin Princess crossed the room to her mother, kissed her, crossed to her father, kissed him, and then turned to face Clete. She put out her hand.

"Hello, Mr. Frade. I'm Dorotea," she said, offering him a glowing smile; her complexion was even more lovely than her mother's.

Her hand was warm and soft.

"Clete Frade," he said. His voice sounded strange to him. And his heart was beating strangely, too.

She's just a kid; she is the daughter of your hosts. Control yourself! What's wrong with you, pal, is that you haven't been laid since Christ was a corporal, and you are full of booze. Watch yourself!

"How was the game, querida?" Mallin asked fondly.

"My God, Daddy, it was hot out there! Even at this hour."

"Do you play tennis, Clete?" Pamela asked.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good, then we'll have a game, Henry plays well, but dragging him onto the courts is like dragging him to the dentist."

"I'd like that."

Ram6n, the chauffeur, appeared in the doorway, holding his cap in his hand.

"I have had the gentleman's luggage sent to his room, Se?or," he reported.

"What happened at customs?" Mallin demanded. "When there was a delay, why didn't you speak with Inspector Nore?"

"I did, Se?or. He said it was out of his hands; it was an Internal Security matter."

Maybe I'm not so paranoid after all,Clete thought. It is entirely possible that that charming Argentinean Consul in New Orleans warned them we were coming. Well, they found nothing. The last thing Adams did before we got on the train to Miami was go through our luggage to make sure there was nothing that could raise questions about us.

Mallin grunted. "And the luggage of the other gentleman?"

"It is at the Alvear Palace, Se?or."

"Thank you, Ramon. Would you ask Alberto to come in, please?" Mallin said, and turned to Clete. "Well, better late than not at all."

"Thank you, Ram?n," Clete said. "And now, if I may be excused?"

"Alberto will show you to your room," Pamela said. "If you need anything, just ring. Should I order dinner for... say, in forty-five minutes?"

"That would be fine with me."

"I'll see you at dinner, Mr. Frade," the Virgin Princess said.

Clete nodded at her but did not trust himself to speak.

Alberto led him to a large, high-ceilinged bedroom. After he left, Clete found proof that the search of his luggage at the terMi?al had been thorough. While Clete was still in the house on St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans, Antoinette did his laundry. Specifically, she washed his socks and rolled them in her peculiar manner. He remembered thinking about that when he packed: Antoinette's rolled socks would pass the inspection of even the most critical, nasty-tempered drill instructor at Parris Island. The socks neatly laid out in a drawer in a chest of drawers here were neat, but not Antoinette neat. When they— what did Mallin's chauffeur say? "Internal Security"—examined his luggage they went so far as to unroll his socks.

Graham had told him that Argentine Internal Security was very good.

Did finding nothing satisfy them? Or just increase their curiosity?

Forty minutes later, after a long hot shower to remove the grime of the flight, and an even longer cold shower to force his libido under control, Clete dressed in a seersucker suit, went down the wide stairs to the foyer, and looked in the sitting room.

Mallin waved him in.

"Feel a little better?" he asked.

"Much better, thank you."

"Another little belt before dinner?" Mallin asked.

"Thank you, no."

"One is usually enough for me, too," Mallin said.

Christ, it should be. There must have been four ounces of scotch in the drink you gave me.

"... and then I usually have a glass of wine for the appetite. May I interest you... ?"

"Thank you," Clete said.

Mallin poured him a glass of a red wine. Clete sipped it. It was very good. He said so.

"They call it Malbec. It... the vines, the cuttings, originally came from France. Bordeaux. This comes from a vineyard in Mendoza Province, near the Andes, in which I have a small interest."

"It's very nice," Clete said.

"There are those—your grandfather among them, by the way-who have been kind enough to suggest that Malbec is better than some French Bordeaux. I sent a few cases to him after my visit to your home in New Orleans."

"It's very nice," Clete repeated. "A little cleaner than most French Bordeaux, now that you mention it."

"If you like it, I am pleased," Mallin said.

"Papa?" a young male voice called from the door. Clete turned to see a boy of fourteen, fifteen, blond and fair-skinned, standing in the door. He was wearing short pants, knee-high socks, and a blazer with an embroidered insignia on the pocket.

That's obviously a school uniform,Clete thought. He looks as if he's in the Third Form at St. Mark's, or one of the other St. Grottlesex schools patterned after English public schools. For that matter, he looks as if he's in his second year at Harrow.

"Enrico, come in and greet our guest," Mallin said. "And since this is a special occasion, you may join us in a glass of wine."

The boy walked to Clete, looking at him with frank curiosity, and put out his hand.

"Enrico, this is Mr. Frade," Mallin said.

"How do you do, Sir?" the boy said.

"How are you, Enrico?"

"You are the gentleman from Texas?" Little Enrico asked, dubiously.

"Yes, I am. I left my horse and six-shooter in the garage."

"But you are wearing boots."

"Enrico!" Mallin protested. "Your manners!"

"I thought you had gauchos down here. Don't they wear boots?"

"We don't have gauchos in the house," Little Enrico said, shocked at the notion.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Clete said.

"Enrico, you owe Mr. Frade an apology. I can't believe you said that."

"He owes me no apology," Clete said. "We have a saying in Texas, Enrico, that you never have to apologize for the truth."

"Really?" Little Enrico asked delightedly.

"Unless that truth is that your friend's girlfriend is fat and ugly," Clete added.

Little Enrico laughed delightedly.

"Whose girlfriend is fat and ugly?" Pamela asked as she and the Virgin Princess walked into the sitting room. The Virgin Princess now had her hair swept neatly upward. She was wearing a yellow linen dress and a strand of pearls which rested in the valley of her breasts. She was wearing high heels, which made her calves even more perfect than when Clete first saw her.

"Enrico's," Clete said. "But he says he doesn't mind, he loves her anyway."

"I said nothing of the kind!" Little Enrico protested, but he giggled.

The Virgin Princess smiled at her brother; her mouth now wore an entirely delightful if faint coat of lipstick. Then she looked at Clete, and their eyes met for just a second, until, his heart jumping, he quickly looked away.

"Will you have some wine, darling?" Mallin asked.

"Yes, please."

"Dorotea?"

"Please, Daddy," the Virgin Princess said.

Mallin was still pouring the wine when Alberto appeared in the door and announced that dinner was served.

"No problem," Pamela said. "We'll just carry our glasses in with us."

That was done formally too. Pamela took her husband's arm. The Virgin Princess took Clete's, and they marched into the dining room with Little Enrico trailing along behind.

Clete did what he could to keep his eyes off the Virgin Princess during dinner. And he was torn between deep regret and enormous relief when Pamela announced afterward, "We'll say good night now, Clete. I know Henry and you have a good deal to talk about."

And the first thing we're going to talk about is finding an apartment for me tomorrow. If I don't get out of this house quickly, I won't be shot by ' 'Internal Security.'' An outraged daddy will do it for making improper advances to his daughter.

"Thank you for a lovely dinner," Clete said.

"Good night, Mr. Frade," both Mallin children said politely, and both politely offered him their hands. For a moment, Clete's eyes again met those of the Virgin Princess.

Jesus Christ, I didn't know they came that beautiful!

[THREE]

Bureau of Internal Security

Ministry of Defense

Edificio Libertador

Avenida Paseo Colon

Buenos Aires

0915 22 November 1942

Comandante—Major—Carlos Habanzo, a stocky, dark-skinned thirty-one-year-old, stood at el Teniente Coronel Bernardo Martin's office door holding a large envelope and wearing a somewhat nervous smile. Habanzo was wearing a brown suit that was too tight around both the shoulders and the crotch, Martin noticed.

Martin waved him in.

"Buenos dias, Habanzo," Martin said. "What do you have for me?" He was a tall, fair-haired, light-skinned man of thirty-five in a well-cut glen plaid suit and a regimentally striped tie.

"Buenos dias, mi Coronel," Habanzo replied, then walked up to Martin's desk, laid the envelope before him, and stepped back from the desk.

Martin opened the envelope.

These are grainy, but very good,Martin decided. There is only so much that can be done with a high-speed 35-mm negative, even one made by a Leica.

As a gesture of friendship, el Coronel Gr?ner, the German military attach6—and the Abwehr's man in Buenos Aires; it was not much of a secret—had arranged for the Defense Ministry to buy a half-dozen Leica I-C 35-mm cameras, at giveaway prices. They were the best tool around for surreptitious photography, and for photographing documents.

"These were taken yesterday, mi Coronel," Habanzo offered. "When the Pan American Clipper landed, and at the Alvear Palace ..."

"Which one is young Frade?" Martin interrupted.

"The tall one, mi Coronel."

"And he is staying at the Alvear Palace?" .

"No, mi Coronel. He was taken to Se?or Mallin's home by Se?or Mallin. There are photos ..."

"You recognized Se?or Mallin, did you, Habanzo?" Martin interrupted again.

"Of course, mi Coronel."

Martin found the entry of Enrico Mallin into the puzzle fascinating.

"Thank you, Habanzo," Martin said. "Please give my compliments to whoever took these. They will doubtless prove very useful."

Habanzo beamed at the compliment.

"That will be all, Habanzo. Thank you," Martin said.

"Con permiso, mi Coronel," Habanzo said, came to attention, did an about-face, and marched out of the room.

Martin examined the photographs again. If one looked for it, one could see a strong family resemblance on young Frade's face. Martin had looked at enough photographs of el Coronel Frade to know his almost as well as his own.

Well, he's here, and he's his father's son. Now I'll have to bring The Admiral in on this, especially with the introduction of Mallin into the puzzle.

The Admiral was el Almirante Francisco de Montoya, the Chief of the Bureau of Internal Security of the Ministry of National Defense, to whom el Teniente Coronel Martin reported directly. Martin's most important responsibility (as Chief of the innocuously named Ethical Standards Office) was to keep an eye on the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos, which was strongly suspected of planning a coup d'?tat against the president.

The commonly accepted motive for a coup d'?tat was El Almirante's strong suspicion—shared by Martin—that President Ram6n S. Castill?, who had pronounced pro-Axis sympathies, intended to remain in office no matter what was the result of the next election, and that the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos was determined to see that this did not happen.

Keeping an eye on the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos meant keeping an eye on el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, who was both the brains and the money behind them.

The imminent arrival of young Frade had first been brought to Martin's attention a week earlier by a captain who worked with Immigration. He set up an appointment, explaining to Martin's sergeant that he had information, unspecified, that el Coronel Martin would be interested in. He showed up, in uniform, at the appointed time, and then spent the better part of an hour telling, in great detail, what he knew.

Martin was by nature an impatient man, but he learned long ago to listen. More often than not, a careful listener could pick out a valuable gem of information hidden somewhere in a haystack of verbosity and minutiae. He heard the captain out:

A cable had been received from the Argentinean Embassy in Washington, D.C., stating that extended residence visas had been granted by the Consulate in New Orleans to two Americans, one of whom, Cletus Howell Frade, was born in Argentina. The cable had suggested that it might be of interest to look into Frade's relations in Argentina. Clearly, the Consul in Buenos Aires had smelled something not quite in order about the two Americans.

A routine investigation into Cletus Howell Frade was discreetly initiated. Since Frade was not an uncommon name in Argentina, there was no reason whatever for the Immigration Section to suspect that the best-known Frade of all had an American citizen for a son.

The investigation quickly determined that Cletus Howell Frade was born in the hospital of the University of Buenos Aires to one Elizabeth-Ann Howell de Frade, Citizen of the U.S. of America, and her husband, one Jorge Guillermo Frade, Citizen of Argentina, resident in Pila, Province of Buenos Aires. Jorge—George— and Guillermo—William—were even more common Christian names in Argentina than the surname Frade.

Beyond that, there was very little information in government files concerning Cletus Howell Frade. There was no record bearing his name in the files of the Ministries of Defense, Education, or Immigration. The files were linked. The Ministry of Education provided the Ministry of Defense annually with a list of physically fit sixteen-year-old males. This gave the Ministry of Defense a list to compare against the list of nineteen-year-old physically fit males who had registered for National Service under the Organic Military Statute of 1901 (according to which, without exception, one year's active military service was required of all physically fit males turning twenty years, followed by reserve service until age forty-five). If a boy's name was on the sixteen-year-old list and not on the nineteen-year-old list, why not? Where was he? One possibility was that he left the country. This could be ascertained by checking the list of sixteen-to-twenty-year-old males who had either left or reentered the country. The Ministry of Immigration furnished this list on a monthly basis.

Cletus Howell Frade's name was not on any of the lists, which suggested that he left the country before his sixteenth birthday and did not return. It was impossible to determine exactly when he left, because records more than five years old were routinely destroyed.

Thorough to a fault, the Immigration Section of BIS's investigators had searched the appropriate files for information on the parents. They could find nothing whatever about Elizabeth-Ann Howell de Frade, the mother. Which meant that she was not resident in Argentina, and, by inference, had last left the country more than five years before, since there was no record of her departure in that period. The records of the boy's father were, however, found in the files of Buenos Aires Province.

They indicated that he was still in Argentina, and still a legal resident of Pila, a small town about 150 kilometers from the City of Buenos Aires in the Province of Buenos Aires.

Further investigation revealed that he had good reason to live in Pila. The town was almost entirely surrounded by Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, whose 84,205—more or less—hectares (one hectare equals about two acres) had been in the Frade family for more than a century and a half. On the death of their father, the estancia had passed to Jorge Guillermo Frade and his sister (now Beatrice Frade de Duarte, whose husband was Humberto Valdez Duarte, Managing Director of the Anglo-Argentinian Bank). Records of the Province of Buenos Aires revealed that shortly after her marriage, Se?ora de Duarte had sold her interest in Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo to her brother for an undisclosed sum.

At that point, the investigators realized they might be dealing not with a Jorge Guillermo Frade, but with the Jorge Guillermo Frade. Confirmation came from the records of the Ministry of Defense, which showed that el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, formerly Colonel Commanding the Husares de Pueyrred?n Cavalry Regiment, (The Husares de Pueyrred?n trace their heritage to the Pampas horsemen, turned cavalrymen, who rode with General J. M. Pueyrred?n, one of the three officers (the others being Manuel Belgrano and Jose' de San Martin) who led the war (1810-1816) for independence from Spain. In 1942, and today, the regimental dress uniform features a bearskin hat and a many-buttoned tunic bedecked with ornate imagery clearly patterned after the Royal and Imperial Hungarian Hussars of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.) one of Argentina's most prestigious units, had upon his retirement eighteen months before listed his official address as Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, Pila, Province of Buenos Aires.

And that changed the entire complexion of the investigation. The investigator in charge brought the matter to his captain's attention; and the captain immediately sought an audience with el Teniente Colonel Martin. He brought with him all the information the investigation had developed.

"Thank you, Capital," el Teniente Coronel Martin said politely. "I will send a memo to el Coronel de Darre expressing my appreciation for your diligence and professionalism in this matter. And, of course, I'll take over this investigation from this point."

From that moment, Martin knew that at some point he would have to bring the problem to the attention of el Almirante. He had put off doing so, however, because of his sure and certain knowledge that once he was apprised of the problem, the Chief of the Bureau of Internal Security of the Ministry of National Defense would rise from his desk, lock his hands behind his back, stare for a moment out his window at the Rio de la Plata, and then turn around and order him to do what he thought should be done under the circumstances.

In other words, nothing; he didn't think he would get any guidance, much less specific orders. El Almirante had no better idea than Martin if the likely coup d’?tat would be successful. If it was, it would obviously be better to have aligned oneself with the dissidents before the attempt. If it failed, it would obviously be better to have manifested some sign of loyalty to the preexisting regime.

Until the situation developed to a point where the success or failure of the coup could be reasonably predicted, the wise path for anyone in their business was absolute neutrality. Martin knew el Almirante devoutly believed—as he himself did—that the best way to preserve one's absolutely neutral status was to avoid any contact that was not absolutely essential with any member of either side.

And "contact" here meant bringing to the attention of el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade that Internal Security was prying into the subject of his son. And into the relationship between the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos and Se?or Enrico Mallin, whose name had never come up before in that connection. And this meant that el Coronel Frade would become aware that Internal Security had added still more facets of his life to their investigations.

The previous incumbent of Martin's position was abruptly transferred back to the Artillery. When el Almirante was turning the job over to Martin, he told him matter-of-factly that the previous incumbent's transfer was engineered by el Coronel Edmundo Wattersly, who believed that Internal Security was adding information to his dossier he didn't want there. Wattersly was the third, perhaps fourth or fifth, most influential member of the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos. Frade was the most influential. Frade very possibly had the power to have el Almirante transferred back to the Armada—the Navy—and el Almirante knew it.

Adding to his dilemma, although he'd given the question a great deal of thought, Martin wasn't sure where el Almirante's loyalties lay—with the President? With the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos? Or was he still sitting on the fence?

But no matter where el Almirante sat, he would have to be made aware of this latest development. No matter what happened, Martin could not afford to have his loyalty to his superior questioned.

Martin reached for his telephone and dialed el Almirante's private, supposed-to-be-secure number.

"Martin, mi Almirante. I have something I'd like to discuss with you as soon as possible."

[FOUR]

Surprising Martin not at all, once the Chief of the Bureau of Internal Security of the Ministry of National Defense was apprised of the problem, he rose from his desk, locked his hands behind his back, stared for three minutes out his window at the Rio de la Plata—it seemed longer than that—and then turned around to face Martin.

I will now be ordered to do what I think best under the circumstances, thus putting my neck and not his on the chopping block. But telling him is still the right thing.

"How, Coronel, do we know that the fellow who arrived from the United States yesterday is in fact el Coronel Frade's son?" el Almirante asked.

The question came as a surprise.

"Mi Almirante," Martin began, aware that he sounded as if he didn't really know what he was talking about, which was exactly how he felt, "he has a passport in that name."

El Almirante dismissed the passport with a wave of his hand.

"There are two possibilities," el Almirante said. "He is, or he isn't. As I would hope you have learned by now, Coronel, I am one of those who believe in assigning tasks to people in whom I have confidence and then letting them get on with it. But in this matter, I think a suggestion is in order."

"S?, mi Almirante?"

"I would suggest that your next step would be to ascertain that Cletus Marcus Howell is, or is not, the son of el Coronel Frade..."

And how will I do that?Martin's mind raced. Fingerprints? Even if I can get this fellow's fingerprints, what would I compare them to?

"... and the way I suggest you do that is ask el Coronel Frade. In either possibility, I daresay that el Coronel could not help but be interested that a man representing himself to be his son has arrived in the country."

"S?, Se?or," Martin said, less as an acknowledgment of receiving an order than as an agreement that this was the way to deal with the situation.

"Let me know what you find out, Martin," el Almirante said, dismissing him.

[FIVE]

Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo

Near Pila, Buenos Aires Province

1225 23 November 1942

After his session with el Almirante, el Teniente Coronel Martin considered the possibilities:

The best would be that the young man was not the son of el Coronel Frade, but some sort of American agent. Then el Coronel Frade could not help but be impressed with the BIS's ability to find him out.

This was a credible scenario: It was a standard practice of intelligence agencies worldwide to issue spurious credentials in the name of a real person, often a dead one. There was no reason to think the Americans were less skilled than anybody else at that sort of thing. If, for example, an American intelligence functionary charged with reading newspaper obituaries had come across the name of a young man, or a child—or even an infant—stating that he had been born in Argentina, the name and statistics would have been filed away for possible future use.

There were several possibilities that were not as pleasant to consider. For instance, the young man could well be who he said he was. And from his looks, that was quite likely.

That's going to place me on dangerous ground with el Coronel Frade. I can't imagine a better way to antagonize a proud and powerful officer than showing him a photograph of his son and telling him that BIS thinks he might be an intelligence agent who is possibly operating against the best interests of Argentina.

And if he is el Coronel's son, that raises other embarrassing questions: What is the relationship between el Coronel and his son? Why has the boy never even been to Argentina before? That suggests that the boy is a skeleton in el Coronel's closet, whose door he felt sure was firmly closed... until BIS stuck its nose once again in his business.

And if the young man is both el Coronet's sonand an American intelligence agent — which is unlikely, but possible— is el Coronel aware of this? Is the son here because the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos has turned to the Americans for help? Or is the young man here to offer that help? And is the American government, which would dearly like to see President Castillo out of office, aware of the relationship between el Coronel Frade and the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos, and playing the father-son card?

Perhaps it would have been better to snoop around a little more, perhaps even ask the Embassy in Washington or the Consulate in New Orleans to see what they could find out about "Cletus Howell Frade." But, following the session with el Almirante de Montoya, that was no longer an option.

Though Martin normally worked in civilian clothing and drove an unmarked Bureau of Internal Security Chevrolet, for his visit to el Coronel Frade he decided to wear his uniform (his basic branch was Cavalry) and arrange for an Army sedan with a soldier driver. Perhaps, if he was lucky, el Coronel Frade would be reminded that he was an officer, a Cavalry officer, simply doing his duty. He also decided not to call ahead and ask for an appointment; Frade was likely to be "unavailable" if he did that. But he would make sure that Frade was at home.

When he called Frade's Buenos Aires home, a large mansion at Number 1728 Avenida Coronel Diaz, he was told that Frade was at the estancia, and was not expected to return to the city for several days.

Which is understandable,Martin thought. If I didn't have to be in the city in the middle of the summer, I wouldn't be here either.

This required only a minor change in his plans. At 10:15 he left Buenos Aires in the backseat of an Army Mercedes open sedan, drove down Route Two to the turnoff to LaPlata, had a nice luncheon in the Hotel Savoy, then returned to Route Two and drove down it past Lake Chascomus to the Pila turnoff, and then down to Pila.

According to the map, the government road ended at Pila. But there was no visible evidence of this. A sign, of brick and wrought iron, at the side of the road read "San Pedro y San Pablo," but he saw no other indication he was now traveling on a private road.

Fifteen kilometers past the sign, he could see glimpses of the sprawling, white painted stone main building, sitting with its outbuildings in a two- or three-hectare manicured garden, all set within a windbreak of a triple row of tall cedars.

Those cedars were planted a long time ago,Martin thought. And then, There are parks in Buenos Aires smaller than el Coronel Frade's garden.

As he came closer, he saw a landing strip in a field outside the windbreak. Four airplanes were parked on it: a stagger-wing Beechcraft, a luxurious, six-place machine he had seen and admired at El Palomar, the civilian airport on the outskirts of Buenos Aires (this was almost certainly Frade's aircraft; he owned such an airplane); a two-plate Piper Cub; and two Fieseler Storches. The Piper had civilian markings, while the Fieselers had Argentine Army markings. Fieselers were provided to the Army as another gesture of friendship and respect by the Germans.

The Fieselers and the Piper might well have just dropped into the Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo for a cup of coffee and a friendly chat with our old comrade-in-arms Jorge Guillermo Frade. But it's more likely that I've come upon a meeting of the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos.

So what to do now? Turn around and go back to Buenos Aires, hoping that no one has noticed an official Army car turn around close to the house? There are gauchos in the fields. It's entirely possible that they are posted as guards or lookouts, and that they sent one of their number galloping across the pampa to the house to report an Army car on the road. Cutting across the pampa, they can get to the house long before I do.

Innocence, I think, is the best face to put on this. If I were placing the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos under surveillance, I would hardly show up in uniform in an Army Mercedes.

A burly man in a brown suit stepped off the shaded verandah as Martin's driver was opening the door for him. There was something about him—his bearing, his immaculate shave—that made Martin suspect he had spent a large portion of his life in the Army, and probably in the Cavalry.

That has to be el Coronet's chauffeur and bodyguard,Martin decided. Suboficial Mayor—Sergeant Major—Rodriguez retired with el Coronel Frade from the Husares de Pueyrred?n.

"Buenas tardes, mi Coronel," the man said.

"I would like to see el Coronel Frade," Martin announced.

"Does el Coronel expect you, mi Coronel?"

No question about it. The gauchos alerted them to my arrival, and this fellow is Suboficial Major Rodriguez, Retired.

"No, he does not."

"If you will be so kind to wait, mi Coronel, I will see if el Coronel is at home."

"Gracias."

Two minutes later, the retired soldier was back.

"If you will be so kind as to come with me, mi Coronel."

El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade, wearing riding breeches, boots, and an open-collared shirt, was waiting for him inside the house, in a large room with an enormous fireplace framed with carved and gilded wooden columns that looked as if they belonged in a museum. The floor was nearly covered with Persian carpeting, beneath which a red-tiled floor could be seen.

"I am Coronel Frade," he said, offering his hand. "Welcome to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. May I offer you a cup of coffee? Something stronger?"

Martin saluted before taking the hand.

"I am Martin. At your service, mi Coronel. No, thank you, Se?or."

"How may I help you, Coronel Martin?"

Martin took his credentials from his pocket and extended them to Frade.

"How did an honest cavalryman become connected with the BIS?" Frade asked.

"It is a long and painful story, mi Coronel," Martin said, smiling.

"I am at your service, and that of Internal Security, Coronel."

"This is a delicate matter, mi Coronel," Martin said. "Absent more pressing duties, el Almirante de Montoya would have handled this himself."

"Why don't we get to the point, Coronel?" Frade said, more than a hint of impatience in his voice.

"I have some photographs, mi Coronel," Martin said, reaching into his briefcase for the envelope containing a dozen from the more than fifty photographs Habanzo had laid on his desk the day before. "May I show them to you?"

Frade went through them one by one. The first several showed three people getting into the ostentatious Rolls-Royce convertible Enrico Mallin insisted on driving.

There is something vaguely American about the other two men,he thought. Where was this taken?

The next several photographs showed everybody leaving the Rolls. He recognized the site. Avenue Alvear.

They're getting out of the Rolls at the Alvear Palace Hotel.

Who the hell are these people?

What's the interest of Internal Security in Enrico Mallin?

There is somethingvery American about the tall one.

Holy Mary, Mother of Christ!

The balance of the photographs were views of the men in the lobby and lobby bar of the hotel.

One of them showed ... Christ, my son, my son!... looking with obvious appreciation at a rather spectacular Mi?a fawning over an old fool standing at the bar.

There was another one of that. Cletus ... my son, my son ...sprawled in a chair, legs outstretched and ankles crossed, wearing boots ... what do you expect, he was raised in Texas, in Texas they stretch their legs and wear boots ... a glass of beer in his hand, and looking with healthy admiration at the Mi?a.

What in the name of the Blessed Virgin and all the saints is he doing in Argentina?

The last two pictures showed Cletus entering Mallin's car and driving off down the Avenue Alvear.

He handed the photographs back to Martin.

"Well? What was I supposed to see in those?"

“Mi Coronel, with respect, did you recognize anyone in those photographs?"

"Yes, of course. Enrico Mallin. The man with the mustache."

"Mi Coronel, with respect, no one else?"

"I have no idea who the short one is. The taller one is my son." He met Martin's eyes. "I didn't think you were asking if I recognized my son."

"Excuse me, mi Coronel. No offense was intended."

"No offense was taken. But I am, naturally, interested to know why BIS is interested in my son."

"There was some question, mi Coronel, whether or not he was in fact your son."

"A question in whose mind?"

"Mine, I am sorry to say, mi Coronel. I am paid to be suspicious of the innocent."

"Yes, I know," Frade said dryly.

"I will not trouble you further, mi Coronel," Martin said. "Thank you for receiving me without notice."

"I'm always pleased to be able to put the mind of the BIS to rest," Frade said.

"Mi Coronel. One final question. To close this matter, so to speak. So far as we know, this is the first time Se?or Frade has visited Argentina. Could you comment on that?"

"I would presume it would have something to do with Howell Petroleum. It is a large norteamericano oil company owned by his grandfather. They do much business here. With Se?or Mallin. Are you telling me you didn't know that?"

"Excuse me, mi Coronel. Do I understand you to say that you have no knowledge why your son has come to Argentina?"

"My son and I have been estranged since he was a small child," Frade said. "I haven't seen him in nearly twenty years. He is an American citizen. And I am surprised that Internal Security didn't know that, either."

"You didn't know he was here, Sir?"

"Not until you showed me those photographs. Is that all, Coronel? I have guests."

"I thank you very much for receiving me, mi Coronel."

"Not at all," Frade said, and put out his hand.

El Teniente Coronel Martin knew that he had been dismissed. He had a number of other questions he would have liked to ask, but he knew he would ask them in vain.

He shook Frade's hand, saluted, then marched out of the house and stepped into his car.

Frade watched Martin from the doorway as he got back in the Mercedes and drove off. Then he went to a small room inside the house furnished like a library, and took from a shelf a thin volume bound in artificial leather. He thumbed through it until he found the page he had often turned to before. On it were a number of photographs of members of the Tulane University Class of 1940. Below one of these was the caption:

Cletus H. Frade

"Clete" "Tex"

BA

Clete came to Tulane from Texas AandM

and never quite got the sagebrush out of his hair.

Tennis, Golf, the Aviation Club

Going to Be a Marine Pilot

He looks much younger in this picture than he did in the ones Martin showed me, but there's no question that's him.

I wish I could somehow have kept some of those photographs.

What in the name of Sweet Jesus is' he doing here?

Doing here that has attracted the interest of Internal Security?

He closed the book and put it back on the shelf, then left die library and walked across the entrance foyer to the sitting room.

"We were getting worried about you," el Coronel Guillermo Kleber said.

"No cause for that."

"What did that man want?" el Coronel Edmundo Wattersly asked, and went on without waiting for a reply. “You know who he is, of course, Jorge?"

"His name is Martin and he's with Internal Security. It was a personal matter."

"A personal matter?" Kleber asked incredulously.

"A personal matter, Willy," Frade said coldly. "It had nothing to do with Grupo de Oficiales Unidos."

"I devoutly hope you're right," Kleber said.

"Can we move on to the business that brought you here?" Frade said impatiently. "You make a very odd-looking nervous old maid, Willy."

"He saw my airplane, I'm sure," Kleber said. "That makes me nervous."

"I'm quite sure BIS has all our names on a list," Frade said. "And I wouldn't be at all surprised if they have a much longer list of the times we have been together. But until they know what we're talking about, I don't think that's a cause for alarm. You were saying you believe the way to Lopez's heart is through his pocketbook?"

Coronel Ricardo L?pez commanded the 2nd Regiment of Infantry, stationed near Buenos Aires.

For a moment, it looked as if el Coronel Kleber was unwilling to drop the subject of the visit of el Teniente Coronel Martin to the estancia.

"Jorge, L?pez has no independent means," Kleber said finally. "He is approaching retirement. For him the difference between a comfortable and a pinchpenny retirement is a promotion to general officer."

"You're not telling me he's asked for money? Or a guarantee of promotion when—if—we decide we must take action?"

"Of course he hasn't asked for money," Kleber said, almost angrily. "He's an honorable man."

"I'm glad to hear that," Frade said. "I have very strong feelings about buying people. Philosophical and practical. The people who back us must be concerned with the good of Argentina, not their own pocketbooks."

"It's easy for you to say that, Jorge, if you will forgive me."

"I will forgive you, Willy," Frade said. "If you will permit me to remind you that the practical reason why I am loath to turn an honorable Army officer into a mercenary—and that's the word to describe someone who fights for money and not for principle, mercenary—is that their allegiance switches to those who are willing to pay the most."

"All he's concerned about is his future, Jorge," Wattersly interjected.

"I'm concerned with the future of Argentina, Edmundo," Frade said. "With that in mind, I suggest you two visit el Coronel L?pez and tell him to search his conscience. If he wants to join us, fine. If he does not, fine. And when the time comes, if L?pez supports us, or does not betray us to Castill?'s people, we will see that he is promoted to general. An honorable man deserves promotion. Of course, you won't tell him that."

"And if he receives his promotion, we could count on his continued loyalty afterward, right?" Wattersly said.

"That thought has run through my mind," Frade admitted.

"Willy?" Wattersly asked.

"All right," el Coronel Kleber agreed. "Jorge's probably right."

Kleber always gives in at the end,Frade thought. Is that because I am always right? Or because Willy is a weak man?

"We've been at this long enough," Frade said. "I think we should at least break for a coffee."

Chapter Eight

[ONE]

23 Calle Arcos

Belgrano, Buenos Aires

1025 25 November 1942

Clete Frade was at the moment very much aware that his case of runaway carnal appetite was not a temporary anomaly brought about by a long period of enforced celibacy, a very long airplane ride, a good deal of alcohol, and the to-be-expected nervous excitement that went along with arriving in a foreign country as a secret agent charged with blowing up a ship.

If anything, his fascination with and hunger for the Virgin Princess had grown even more intense since he first met her four days before. He even dreamed about her, the dreams twice culMi?ating in nocturnal emissions after he had worked his wicked imaginary way with her.

An hour earlier (he recalled in painfully exquisite detail as he watched her marvelous derriere, barely concealed by her tennis dress, ascend the stairs to the second floor) when the Virgin Princess bent over to retrieve a tennis ball and innocently offered him a glance down the opening of her blouse, his talley wacker popped to attention so quickly and with such intensity that he almost cried out in pain.

"How did the tennis go?" Pamela de Mallin asked, walking into the foyer.

"She's really quite good. She has an unusually strong forehand."

"From her father. My forehand stroke is my weak point. I'm sorry I couldn't go with you."

"We missed you."

"Dorotea enjoys playing with you. She says that you're so much better than she is that she's learning a great deal. It's nice of you to play with her."

"My pleasure. She's a really nice kid."

"And, of course, she's able to show off her older gentleman friend to all her girlfriends," Pamela said with just a hint of a smile.

I wonder why I don't react to her other friends the way I do to her. Many of them are as good-looking as she is.

"You won't be having lunch, will you?" Pamela asked.

"No, thank you, I won't. I'm to meet Mr. Nestor for lunch. Will finding a cab be any trouble? And how far is it from here to the bank?"

"Oh, I'll have Ramon take you. And keep the car, Clete, I won't be going anywhere."

"That's kind, but unnecessary. I can take a taxi."

"Well, then, a compromise. Ramon will take you, and you can find your way back here on your own. What time are you to meet him?"

"I'd like to get there a few minutes before twelve."

"Then you'd better leave here," she looked at her watch, "at quarter past eleven. It's now almost ten-thirty."

"Then I'd better have my shower."

"I'll tell Ram?n to bring the car outside at quarter past. And if I don't see you before you go, have a nice lunch."

"Thank you."

Clete smiled at her and went up the stairs. His room was to the right, as was the Virgin Princess's. And as he walked down the corridor to his room, he saw that the door to hers was slightly ajar. Ajar enough for him to glimpse her bed, on which her tennis clothes and undergarments lay after she had removed them prior to taking her shower. A moment later a delightful, if painful, image thrust its way into his mind—of the Virgin Princess standing under the shower with the water running down between her breasts to the junction of her legs.

Jesus Christ, Frade! You're really a dirty young man!

He took a long cold shower and then dressed. He decided on a cord jacket and trousers. As he examined himself in the mirror, he remembered where he bought the jacket—in Neiman-Marcus, in Dallas. And when—in the spring of 1940, just before he graduated from Tulane.

The Virgin Princess was how old then? Seventeen?

At the time, he didn't really want it. He suspected, correctly as it turned out, that he would not be permitted to wear civilian clothing when he went into the Corps; he went into the Corps three days after he graduated. But when he met Martha for lunch in the Neiman-Marcus restaurant before she flew out to Midland, she told him he looked like a ragpicker, that she was ashamed to be seen with him in public, and marched him into the men's store and bought the jacket for him.

And now I'm Cletus Frade, Secret Agent, about to wear it in Argentina, for my first meeting with the mysterious Jasper C. Nestor, Spymaster.

It's not happening the way it does in the movies. If Alan Ladd was sent down here to deal with the Dirty Huns, he would have met the spymaster in the middle of the night in some dark alley, and he'd have been wearing a trench coat.

"Why don't you come here, Frade?" Nestor had said on the telephone. He had a Boston accent. More precisely a Harvard Boston banker accent. "I'll introduce you to the people who will be handling your account. And then we'll have lunch. Have you eaten in the Plaza?"

"No, I haven't."

"El Grill, on the ground floor, is the oldest restaurant in Buenos Aires. Everybody who visits Buenos Aires should eat there at least once."

Is that what I'm doing, "visiting Buenos Aires"?

"Sounds fine."

"Come by the office—I'm on the third floor—say about noon?"

"Right."

"I'll look forward to it."

Aware that he was doing it because he was thinking about Martha, Clete pulled on a pair of boots Martha had had made to his measure by a bootmaker in Matamoros. They had walking rather than riding heels, and calfskin uppers which took a high shine. Dress-up boots, Martha had called them. So he wouldn't look like a saddle-bum when she made him take her to church.

Ramon drove him from Belgrano to the Banco de Boston Building in Florida in the Jaguar Saloon; and it turned out to be a disappointing car. It had a marvelous name, of course—it was hard to think of a Ford Saloon, or even a Lincoln Saloon, without smiling—and the body was beautiful, inside and out. But it didn't have any power. Ram?n had to row it along with the gearshift.

I'll be glad when the Buick gets here.

The Banco de Boston Building, and the area around it, reminded Clete of Wall Street in New York City—1890s elegant, heavy, the facade elaborately decorated. The bronze doors of the main entrance, on a corner, were enormous; the entrance itself was floored and flanked with marble. He noticed, too, a brass plate mounted on the wall reading "Embajada de los Estados Unidos de America," with an arrow pointing to a doorway. Clete gave in to the impulse, took several steps backward on the sidewalk, and looked up. There it was, several floors above him, the American flag hanging limply from a pole.

He entered the bank and asked directions to Nestor's office.

Nestor looked the way he sounded on the telephone. He was a slim man, about forty, wearing a nearly black gray suit, a button-down collar shirt, and a maroon Harvard tie.

"Well, Mr. Frade," he said, flashing not much of a smile and offering a somewhat clammy hand. But, surprising Clete, he did his best to give him a painfully hard handshake. "I'm very happy to meet you. Had any trouble finding the place?"

"None at all, thank you."

"Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Or would you rather we tend to our business and then feed the hungry man?"

"No coffee, thank you," Clete said.

Nestor took a small leather card case from his jacket pocket, and peeled one off.

"My card. Feel free to call me at any time," he said.

"Thank you," Clete said.

Nestor took his arm and led him out of the office and back down to the main floor, where he introduced him to two Argentineans and two Americans, too low in the bank hierarchy to rate more than a desk and a chair for visitors in a long row of identical desk sets.

Each time he introduced Clete the same way:

"This is Mr. Frade, Mr. Cletus Howell Frade, of Howell Petroleum."

One of the Americans was David Ettinger, who gave no sign he had ever seen Clete before.

"Mr. Ettinger has just come down here himself," Nestor said. "He was in our New York office."

At the desk of one of the Argentineans, Clete was given a signature card to sign. He was then informed it would be a week or two before checks with his name printed thereon would be available; in the meantime, he should feel free to use counter checks; "the tellers will be alerted to the situation." He was handed a pad of a dozen counter checks, which were twice the size of an American check.

As they started out of the bank, Nestor touched his arm, and whispering as if he were about to impart a deep secret, asked, "I presume you're all right for ready cash? Or should I arrange something before we leave?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Clete said.

Nestor had a 1939 Buick Special Coupe parked in a garage near the Banco de Boston Building. The right fender and door bore red splotches. A body job was obviously in progress.

Apparently my new boss has not been able to adjust to driving on the left. Either that, or these people are as crazy behind the wheel as they seem. Or both.

Halfway to the Plaza Hotel, Clete concluded that it was both. Nestor was an inept, nervous driver, and a substantial percentage of the other drivers seemed to be insane.

"Well," Nestor finally asked, "how are things going?"

"Either today or tomorrow Pelosi is moving into an apartment on Avenida Corrientes. Mallin tells me the 'negotiations' for my apartment should be completed either today or tomorrow and that I should be able to move in as soon as they are."

"Where did you say that was?"

"Posadas 1354, Piso sexto"—sixth floor.

Clete had the strange feeling that a mechanical recorder had just started running in Nestor's brain: Once hearing that address, he would never forget it, and he would spew it back with perfect accuracy whenever called upon.

"And the telephone number?"

"I don't have that. One of the reasons the 'negotiations' are going so slowly was a disagreement over the price of the telephone."

"Yes," Nestor said.

"Where is Ettinger staying?"

"At the bank's guest house. An apartment near Recoleta. I'm working on an apartment for him. When I have an address and a phone, I'll pass it to you."

"Am I permitted to ask questions?"

"Yes, of course."

"What do you do if one of your agents doesn't have an independent income?"

"You mean for money?"

"Yeah. Mallin told me the man who owns the apartment wanted two hundred fifty dollars for the phone, and he was trying to get it down to two hundred."

"They've gone for as much as five," Nestor said. "And then there will be a bribe to the telephone company, probably for at least that much, to activate the line. You're lucky to have Mr. Mallin handling it for you." He paused and then turned and smiled at Clete. "We try very hard to recruit young men of independent means."